Aaron sat in his car across the street from the old building, engine idling low. He was tired and felt like he was getting sick. He had been riddled with anxiety ever since he called Lana back the night before. He couldn’t sleep, so he stayed up until dawn, pacing his room and trying to reason with himself. He couldn’t focus at school either, and had no appetite. At four o’clock, he rushed home, showered, changed into sleek black pants and a blue pullover sweater, and drove downtown in silence with his stomach in his throat.
The late afternoon light was soft and hazy, turning the red brick walls of the warehouse to gold. In his rearview, he watched the front doors open and close, the people come and go — a woman with a takeaway cup, a man in a sleek suit talking on the phone, an elderly woman with an armful of paper folders — all of them moving so easily, like they knew where they were going. He’d been parked in the same spot for about twenty minutes. He was early, but his hands wouldn’t stop sweating. He wiped them off on his pants and told himself it was no different than any other job interview. Nothing more, nothing weird.
Still, he reached for his phone and reread the email just to double check that he was at the right place.
Subject: CONFIRMATION — Meeting with Mr. Bellamy
Hello Aaron,
It was lovely speaking with you last night and I appreciate you getting back to me so promptly. As we discussed, Mr. Bellamy would like to meet with you in person tomorrow at 5:30 PM. Our offices are located at 1420 Jefferson Street in the Grafton Building.
When you arrive, please check in with the front desk in the main lobby and you’ll be directed upstairs to our offices on the third floor. There is paid street parking nearby, as well as a small lot behind the building. Business casual attire is preferred.
It’s nothing overly formal, just a short introduction to help Mr. Bellamy get a better sense of who you are. If anything comes up or you need to reach me, you can reply here or call me directly. Otherwise, we look forward to meeting you tomorrow evening.
Kind regards,
Lana R.
Executive Assistant
Bellamy & Co. Concierge Services
1420 Jefferson Street, Suite 301 | San Francisco, CA | 94123
T: (415) 555-9400 | D: (415) 555-0179 | E: [email protected]
This email and all related correspondence are considered strictly confidential.
The Grafton Building was a monolith of red brick and black steel, a historic titan of local industry. Aaron had done some research into the building late last night. Originally built for a trading company of fine imports, then used as a printing warehouse for a newspaper, and finally restored and converted into office lots in the 1990s. Everything looked ordinary enough — a café on the ground floor, a law firm, a tech startup, and a design studio on the second floor. He’d also tried looking up Bellamy and Co. Their website was sleek and corporate, with images of champagne glasses, private jets, attractive men in suits helping women into black cars. Luxury lifestyle management and private concierge services for discerning clients. There were mentions of event planning, travel coordination, and corporate hospitality, with a few glowing testimonials from people identified only by initials and cities.
“Truly world-class service.”
—J.R., Los Angeles
The Google listing displayed an address — 1420 Jefferson Street — the same as Lana’s email. There were no reviews, no photos, and the hours read simply: by appointment only. He checked the state business registry, which confirmed they’d been around since 1997. The filing listed a G. Bellamy as the only registered agent. Other than that, there was no mention of the elusive Mr. Bellamy anywhere online. He dug up an old LinkedIn company page that had no employees listed, and an article from 2011 about “expanding private hospitality operations into Europe”.
And that was it. No photos of staff, no client lists, interviews, or any clear sense of what they actually did. For a company that had supposedly existed for almost thirty years, there wasn’t much to prove that it existed at all, other than in the gaps between search results. The deeper he looked, the less there was. He eventually settled on the very likely possibility that it was just some weird “rich person thing” that he didn’t understand. Still, everything inside of him wanted to pull out and go back home, put all of this away in that dark corner of his mind he didn’t like visiting and forget that anything ever happened.
It was getting closer to 5:30. His knee was bouncing, his stomach had twisted itself into a knot. His hand was frozen around the handle of his car door. With a slow and shaky exhale, he finally stepped outside and crossed the street. Up close, the building looked even older. The big brass nameplate above the double doors was dulled by time.
The Grafton Building — Erected 1926, Restored 1997.
The air inside was dusty and faintly metallic, carrying the smell of old ink mixed with coffee. The main lobby opened up in front of him. It was empty and smaller than he expected, but stately in a tired sort of way. A few cracks ran across the marble floor and a grand but worn staircase curled up to one side, its polished bannister still dark and glossy. Behind a brass-trimmed reception area sat a woman in a navy blazer, her hair pulled neatly back. Aaron hesitated, smoothing his palms on his pants before crossing the room. He tried to recall Lana’s directions from the email.
The receptionist looked up at Aaron as he approached. “Hi, there,” she said. “Can I help you?” Her voice was clipped but polite.
He nodded, trying not to sound as uncertain as he felt. “Hi. Uh, I have a meeting with Mr. Bellamy at 5:30. Concierge services?”
She typed something into her computer. The clack of the keys echoed, almost too loudly in the empty lobby. She then picked up her phone, and after a brief murmur into the receiver, asked, “Name?”
“Aaron Matthews.”
She nodded and hung up the phone. “Alright, you’re all set. They’re expecting you.” She turned and pointed behind her toward the old freight elevator.
“Take the elevator just past the main staircase here, on your left. Third floor. You’ll need to buzz in. There’s a call button next to the panel.”
“Oh, okay. Awesome. Thank you.”
She smiled again, faint but professional. Aaron thanked her and turned toward the monstrous freight elevator. It was tucked away behind the staircase, in a slightly narrower hallway lined with exposed brick and painted-over steel beams. He pressed the button and the heavy green doors lifted with a low moan, revealing what looked more like a huge cage than any elevator he’d ever seen before. On the inside panel, there were only two buttons, for the first and second floors. The doors slid closed behind him. Then he noticed the small metal intercom box beneath a label.
Suite 301 | Bellamy & Co. — Press for Access
There was a short buzz and then he heard Lana’s disembodied voice. “Come on up, Aaron.” The elevator lurched into life with a low, grinding mechanical hum. It sounded ancient and jolted in a way that made him queasy as it ascended to the third floor. The doors groaned open, and the first thing he saw was her. A young woman was seated behind a curved black desk across the open-concept reception room, looking up from a screen with a smile that seemed genuine.
The space around her was so sleek and elegant. Every surface was polished, every detail deliberate and perfected. The exposed brick walls still showed off the building’s industrial legacy and were painted white, softened with frosted glass panels, low velvet and leather chairs, brushed brass accents. A thin scent of cedar, leather, and something clean hung in the air. Light jazz was playing softly. Between Aaron and the desk, a path of white marble squares was set into the polished hardwood floor, bordered by a few tall plants. Everything screamed quiet wealth. He felt out of place.
“Aaron,” said the woman, as she stood from her desk, cradling a sleek tablet under her arm. “It’s nice to see you.”
Aaron finally stepped forward, extending a hand. “Yeah. Hi. Lana, right?”
She laughed, light and girlish. “That’s me. You found us alright?”
She was beautiful in that striking, effortless way — the kind of beauty that came from precision rather than softness. She couldn’t have been much older than him, but everything about her felt so adult. Her brown hair was long and glossy, and it fell smoothly over one shoulder. Her dark eyes were sharp and watchful. The white blouse and black pencil skirt she wore were immaculate, perfectly tailored, and highlighted all the right curves of her body, which was slender yet feminine. Even the shine on her black stilettos seemed intentional. There was something quietly intimidating about this girl who could’ve been one of his peers, and for a moment, Aaron forgot what he was supposed to say.
“Uh, yeah,” he finally managed. He released her hand a beat too late, feeling the burn on his cheeks. “Took me a second to figure out the elevator, but… yeah. Found it.”
“The elevator can be tricky,” she admitted. “I promise you’re not the first to think it’s out of order.” She tapped something on her tablet. Aaron shifted his weight. “If you’ll come with me, Mr. Bellamy’s ready for you.” She stepped around the desk and gestured for him to follow. Her heels clicked softly against the polished floors as they walked along a hallway lined with massive arched windows on one side and glass partitions on the other, blurring the rest of the offices into muted shapes. He thought he could hear muffled voices, but he wasn’t sure. Somehow, the golden light of the sunset outside felt cold on his face. Aaron trailed a few steps behind, adjusting his sleeves.
He cleared his throat. “So, what exactly does Bellamy and Co. do? Like, day to day? Is it mostly corporate stuff? Or… like travel planning?” His voice sounded thin and he immediately felt like he had somehow just asked the dumbest question possible.
She smiled back at him, her voice sounding slightly amused. “Well, a little bit of everything. We work around our clients and their needs. Professional and personal needs. It’s not really a nine-to-five.” They started up a black wrought iron spiral staircase. Aaron forced himself to look anywhere but directly in front of him, not wanting to get caught watching the graceful sway of her hips as they ascended. “We mostly handle high-end lifestyle management,” she continued smoothly. “Travel, events, private services. You’ll get the full rundown from Mr. Bellamy himself.”
“Oh, of course. Thank you. That makes sense,” he said, though she had still answered none of his questions. At the top of the staircase, the fourth floor of the Grafton Building opened up into a small landing that felt more like a private gallery than an office. It was more quiet. Not totally silent but like something waiting, watching. There was only a single door ahead, tall and black, with a brass knob polished to a mirror shine and a small engraved plaque.
G. Bellamy
“This way,” Lana said softly. She led him to the door, which he hadn’t realized was already slightly ajar, and held it open for him. “You can wait in here. Mr. Bellamy will be with you shortly.” Her tone was even, almost gentle.
“Thank you,” Aaron said as he stepped inside. She nodded and shut the door behind him with a soft, deliberate click that seemed to seal the air itself. The study was large but not in a showy or obnoxious way. It whispered instead of shouted. He smelled something faintly musky, like the ghost of an expensive cologne.
Warm lamps pooled light across the black mahogany desk, the leather couches, the low bar cart that was stocked with imported whiskies and fine spirits. A grand piano gleamed faintly near the tall windows. Heavy velvet drapes half-concealed the view of the bay below. Behind the desk stretched a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, filled with impressive volumes of art and travel books. Mixed among its shelves were objects that seemed curated for mystery rather than meaning: a bronze hand sculpture, a fossilized ammonite shell, a small marble bust of an Ancient Greek god.
And then, opposite the piano, Aaron saw the gallery wall. A grid of black-and-white photographs, each one framed and arranged in perfect symmetry. At first, he couldn’t tell what he was looking at other than just fragments of light and shadow, smooth curves and sharp lines. Then, slowly, he realized. They were all close-ups of the male form — a shoulder blade, a collarbone, the slope of a hip, a sculpted abdomen, the hollow of a back, a hand resting against a thigh. They were beautiful, tasteful, almost abstract, but intimate in a way that made his throat tighten. It was as if each portrait captured the breath between tension and surrender. The whole collection bred a sense of masculine control and desire.
Aaron stood near the gallery wall, unsure of where to put his hands. He tried not to fidget, not to look out of place. He was aware of every small sound from the creak of the floorboards beneath his shoes to the hum of an air vent. The rhythm of the ticking clock filled the silence. Then came the sound of a door creaking open.
Aaron turned.
The man who stepped into the room looked exactly as he remembered — the grey suit, the cold blue eyes, the glasses, the goatee. The only difference now was that the restaurant’s warm light had been replaced by the low amber glow of the office, and in it, Mr. Bellamy looked even more precise, even more composed. Aaron was in his domain now, and he could feel it. “Aaron Matthews,” he said, his voice smooth, deep. “It’s good to see you again.”
For a moment, Aaron couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. All the pieces clicked together in his mind — the wine, the smile, that little black card. He blinked once, twice, and then exhaled a quiet, startled laugh before he could stop himself. “What…” he began, but his brain hadn’t caught up to his mouth.
Bellamy smiled, crooked and indulgent. He gestured to the supple leather couches, inviting Aaron to sit as he made his way over to the bar cart. “I wondered if you’d recognize me.” He poured two crystal glasses of rye whiskey and handed one to Aaron, who took it warily, before he spoke again. “I can see you’re surprised. I prefer to conduct my business in person. It’s the only way I can really get a sense of someone… of who they are.”
He sat down on the couch across from Aaron, quick eyes lingering along his body, like that night in the restaurant. He took him in, like he’d been waiting for this moment a long time. “I don’t want this to be more intimidating or uncomfortable for you than I’m sure it already is. Think of this as a conversation, not an interview. I simply want to know who you are, and whether what we do here makes sense for you.” Aaron was still processing. He parted his lips to say something, but Bellamy raised a glass, proposing a toast. “To good conversation?”
Aaron managed a tight smile. Their glasses clinked together with a clear and expensive sound. The rye hit sharp and dry, with a bite that caught the back of his throat. It wasn’t sweet like the stuff his roommates mixed with Coke. It was cleaner, older. It didn’t make him cough, but it was enough to make him pay attention. Bellamy kept his eyes on him from over the rim of his glass. “You looked different that night,” he said, studying him. “At the restaurant. A little louder. More confident.”
Aaron tilted his glass in thought. “Guess I was just having a good night.”
“Mmm,” Bellamy murmured. “Maybe. But that wasn’t really you, was it?”
The question landed softly, almost kindly, but it seemed to grip Aaron around the neck. Bellamy leaned back in his chair. “You look tired, Aaron. Drained, even. Overworked. Stretched too thin for someone your age.”
Aaron exhaled through his nose, unsure whether to take offense or agree. “Yeah, well…. I mean, school, work, life. It’s all kind of a lot right now.”
“Take your pick, hey?” Bellamy laughed. “It usually is. Especially when you’re doing everything right and it’s still not quite enough.” Aaron glanced at him, surprised by how precisely that hit. Bellamy smiled faintly, as though he’d noticed. “That’s why I wanted to meet with you. What we do here — it’s not for everyone. But for the right kind of person, it can change everything.”
Aaron took another sip, savouring the burn.
“You remind me of myself, actually, when I was your age,” said Bellamy. “Too smart, too proud. People like us — we have to learn to perform. We smile, we keep busy, we roll over and pretend we’re fine because the moment we stop, it all catches up to us.”
Aaron didn’t answer. It wasn’t worth pretending he didn’t feel seen.
“That’s why I built this place. Not for the lazy or the lost, but for the people who still care about control. Let me tell you what we do here, so you can decide if it’s worth your time.”
Aaron nodded but didn’t say anything. The man’s tone didn't leave much room for interruption.
Bellamy leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, watching Aaron carefully as he spoke. “We call ourselves a concierge agency, but we’re really just a small part of a much larger network. Our clients come to us from all over the world and what we offer them is personal companionship. They’re mostly executives, investors, travelers, even politicians. People who simply want to pay for time with someone who listens, who makes them feel alive again. It’s not about sex, not at first. It’s about presence, charm. We provide conversation, company, discretion. Sometimes more, sometimes less. You decide what you’re comfortable with.”
Aaron considered Bellamy’s words for a few moments. “So… what, I’d just get paid to hang out with people?” His tone was more irreverent than he’d intended.
“You’d be surprised how valuable good company can be. We don’t sell bodies, Aaron. We sell time.” Aaron’s curiosity was sharpened.
“And… how does that even start? Do you just call people up and say, like, ‘Hey, I’m free tonight’?”
“No, nothing so crude,” Bellamy chuckled. “We, of course, handle all of that. You’d have a profile, private and vetted. Clients browse through intermediaries, like Lana, never direct contact. Every appointment goes through us."
Aaron’s eyes bored into Bellamy’s. His jaw was tight. The word profile made him feel like a commodity already. “And the pay?”
“Competitive,” Bellamy said smoothly. “Enough to make you stop worrying about whatever it is that’s keeping you up at night.” He set down his glass, folded his hands. “Compensation depends on the client, the engagement, and—” his eyes flicked over to Aaron, deliberate and assessing, undressing him “—you.” Aaron swallowed. “For some of our newer associates, a simple evening booking might earn a thousand dollars. For others, who understand the rhythm of this work, it can be much, much more.”
Aaron let out a short incredulous laugh. “That’s… a lot of money.”
“It is,” Bellamy agreed easily. “And there are clients who will pay ten times that just to have someone beside them who listens, who looks the part, and who knows when to speak and when not to. You won’t have to do anything you don’t already do every day — look good, smile, laugh.”
The room breathed for a while before Aaron asked, “What if I don’t want to… you know, sleep with anyone?” He suddenly felt like a child.
Bellamy’s tone softened, patient and paternal. “Then you don’t. Nothing happens here without consent.” He stood and poured himself another glass. “That’s the beauty of it, Aaron. It’s all about control, choice. You choose who, when, and how far.“ He crossed the room with unhurried grace and lowered himself onto the couch beside Aaron. The cushions dipped, closing the space between them.
Aaron’s throat tightened. The nearness was magnetic, not threatening exactly, but heavy. It was like standing too close to a fire. He could almost taste Bellamy’s dark, woodsy cologne.
“Most of these men,” he continued, “haven’t been told no in years. They find it thrilling when someone finally does. It’s a game for them. But one where you set the stakes. Always."
A silence hung between them, broken only by the ticking of a clock. “You don’t strike me as someone who likes feeling powerless or invisible,” Bellamy added. “That’s why you’re here.” He put a hand on Aaron’s shoulder, tenderly but with a sense of familiar authority, and Aaron felt it like a pulse behind his ribs. “Has anyone ever made you feel truly seen?”
Aaron’s breath caught before he could answer. The question stung. It was too personal, too direct. Bellamy didn’t remove his hand right away.
“I—” Aaron started, then stopped. He forced a small laugh, hoping to disarm the discomfort, but he felt his shoulders flex with tension. “You ask some pretty heavy stuff.” He tried to laugh it off, but his voice sounded smaller than he wanted it to. He could feel the man’s eyes on him. There was a spark of longing in them, a glimmer of desire, and Aaron had to look away.
Bellamy smiled faintly, his thumb brushing the fabric of Aaron’s sleeve before he reluctantly let go. “They’re the only kind worth asking.”
The warmth where Bellamy’s hand had been lingered long after the contact broke. Aaron shifted in his seat, the whiskey pulsing slow and warm in his chest.
“You’ll get used to questions like that,” Bellamy said, leaning back again. “That’s what this work demands. It’s not about pretending. It’s about learning what people crave and giving them just enough of it to make them come back.”
Aaron tried to steady his breathing. “Sounds like manipulation.”
“Everything worth doing is,” he replied, easily. He emptied his second glass, then, with the same calm, professorial tone: “But the trick is believing it’s mutual.”
Bellamy stood, signalling the end of their meeting. Aaron finished his drink, though it burned sharper this time, and stood up as well. “Lana will follow up with the details and send you home with some paperwork to fill out. Take some time. Think it over. There’s never any rush.” His tone softened again. “You really are so beautiful, Aaron. You have more potential than you realize. I’d hate to see you waste it.”
Aaron could feel his heart start to flutter. His cheeks reddened yet again. Bellamy offered his hand. His grip was firm, deliberate, the kind that said more than words ever could. “A pleasure, Aaron.”
“Yeah,” Aaron said quietly. “Thank you.”
Outside, the sun had set, leaving the streets washed in pale light and deep shadow. The air was cool and clean. It should’ve cleared his head. It didn’t. The last of Bellamy’s cologne still clung to his sleeve, like he was there. He didn’t remember leaving the office, or the elevator, or saying goodbye to Lana. One minute he was sitting on Bellamy’s couch, the next he was sitting in his car. The black folder in his hands felt too heavy. He looked at his reflection in the dark of the window — unfocused, half-ghosted by the streetlights. For a second, he didn’t recognize himself, then he blinked. He looked tired. Older, somehow. Above him, lurking somewhere within that red brick fortress, Aaron imagined Mr. Bellamy still watching. He couldn’t tell if he’d been chosen… or trapped.
