The Strip Club Accountant

Magic City is more than a strip club.

It's an empire. Rappers name-drop it in songs. Athletes blow fortunes here. And every dollar flows through my office.

I'm Diana Ross—yes, really—and I've been keeping these books for fifteen years. CPA credentials, corner office, complete discretion.

I thought I'd seen everything.

Then Damon came home.

Marcus Wright owns Magic City outright.

Bought out his partners ten years ago, turned it into a legitimate business empire. He's sixty-eight now, slowing down, looking for succession.

"My son is coming to learn the operation," he tells me. "Show him the financial side."

"You have a son?"

"From my first marriage. He's been... estranged. But he's ready now."

Damon Wright walks into my office on a Monday.

Thirty-five, built like his father but prettier, MBA from Wharton with a chip on his shoulder.

"So you're the accountant."

"I'm the CFO. There's a difference."

"My father said you run this place financially."

"Your father is correct."

He sits down without invitation. "Then teach me."

Teaching Damon is like wrestling a bear.

He's smart—too smart—and challenges every process, every number, every decision I've made.

"Why do you pay the dancers as independent contractors?"

"Tax efficiency. Same reason we—"

"Seems like you're avoiding liability."

"I'm managing liability. There's a difference." I close my laptop. "You have a problem with how I do my job?"

"I have a problem with not understanding it yet."

"Then shut up and learn."

Weeks pass.

The fighting settles into something else—respect, maybe. He stops challenging everything and starts actually listening.

"You're good at this," he admits one night. We're both working late, the club thumping beneath us.

"That's why your father pays me well."

"It's more than that." He looks at me—really looks. "You could run any Fortune 500 finance department. Why stay here?"

"Because here I'm not invisible."

The truth slips out before I can stop it.

"What do you mean?" he asks.

"In corporate America, Black women over fifty are furniture. Here..." I gesture at the empire below us. "Here I matter."

"You'd matter anywhere, Diana."

The way he says my name makes something flutter.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're seeing something you want."

He leans back. "And if I am?"

I should shut this down.

He's my boss's son. Twenty years younger. Probably playing games.

"You're too young for me."

"I'm thirty-five."

"And I'm fifty-five."

"So?" He stands, moves around the desk. "My father didn't build an empire by following other people's rules."

"This isn't about rules—"

"It's about fear." He stops in front of me. "You're scared because I see you. The real you. Not the CFO, not the numbers—the woman."

"Damon..."

"Tell me to leave and I will." His hand touches my face. "But I've been watching you for six weeks. Learning you like you're teaching me the business. And I know what I want."

"What do you want?"

"You. Tonight. However you'll have me."

I kiss him.

Against every professional instinct, every practical thought. He kisses back like he's been planning it—hands finding my waist, pulling me from my chair.

"Not here," I gasp.

"My apartment is ten minutes away."

"Make it five."

His apartment is sleek, expensive, forgettable.

We barely see it—too busy undressing each other, too hungry to admire décor.

"God, you're beautiful," he breathes.

"You don't have to—"

"I'm not flattering you." He kneels, looks up at me. "I'm stating facts."

He undresses me like I'm precious.

Every curve revealed, every inch examined with hungry eyes. When I'm naked, he stays on his knees.

"I've wanted to do this since the first time you corrected my numbers."

"That was day one—"

"I know." He leans in. "Some things are clear immediately."

His mouth between my legs is revelation.

Young, eager, surprisingly skilled. He finds my rhythms faster than men twice his age, reads my body like a balance sheet.

"Right there—Damon—"

"I've got you. Let go."

I come against his mouth, hands gripping his shoulders.

"Inside me," I manage. "Now."

He strips quickly, rolls on protection, lifts me against the wall.

"Like this?"

"Like anything."

He slides inside, and I wrap my legs around him.

He fucks me against the wall like he has something to prove.

Young energy, seasoned technique—a combination that has me screaming within minutes.

"So tight," he groans. "So perfect—"

"More—"

"Anything."

He carries me to the bed, lays me down, starts again.

Three rounds later, we're both destroyed.

"This changes things," I say.

"Does it?" He props himself up. "We work together. We're good at it. This is just... an extension."

"Your father—"

"Will deal with it if he finds out." His jaw sets. "I'm not ashamed of wanting you, Diana."

"You should be sensible—"

"I've been sensible my whole life. Got me nothing but a Wharton degree and empty apartments." He pulls me closer. "Let me be insensible for once."

We keep it professional at work.

Mostly.

There are stolen moments in my office. Quick encounters in the private elevator. A full weekend at a hotel where we don't leave the room.

Marcus finds out three months in.

"You're sleeping with my son."

It's not a question. I don't deny it.

"Yes."

He's quiet for a long moment. Then:

"Good."

"What?"

"He's been happier these last few months than I've seen him in years." Marcus leans back. "I don't care who he's with, as long as they see him clearly. You see people clearly, Diana. Always have."

Damon takes over Magic City two years later.

By then, we're engaged. The club staff isn't surprised—they've been watching us try to hide for months.

"Mrs. Wright," he says on our wedding night. "The books will never lie to me again."

"Mr. Wright." I pull him close. "There's more to audit."

"Show me."

I do.

And the numbers always balance.