Page 1 of Suite 7

1 Vera

Eclipse smells like leather and expensive secrets, and I’m about to trust it with my deepest vulnerability.

I passed two people in the corridor on my way in. A man in a well-cut suit, checking his watch, and a woman in wide-leg pants and a silk blouse, speaking quietly into her phone. It could be any private club, if you didn’t know what it was.

The waiting area is small, and I sit with my hands folded in my lap, trying to look like someone who belongs here. Like I haven’t almost cancelled this appointment seventeen times over the last three days. Like my throat isn’t tight at the thought of walking through that door and admitting something about myself I’ve spent years denying.

I found Eclipse the way you find things you’ve been secretly looking for — sideways, at two AM, in a private forum. I already knew what I wanted. Had known for years, in the abstract, shameful, don’t-say-it-out-loud way. The forum gave it a name, and the name led here, and here led to a phone number I called six weeks ago and hung up on twice before I finally let it ring through.

This place breathes a quiet confidence. Everything about it says: You’re safe here.

I don’t believe it yet.

The folder on the table catches me: crisp, unbranded cream cardstock. The Match Programme in small, precise type. No tagline. No explanation. Just those three words.

Eclipse was founded by Dominic Laurent, and the Match Programme is his. It’s not an introduction course, not a club membership — something more specific than either: he finds the right match. Not a date. Not a hookup. A match, someone chosen precisely for your needs, your limits, your emotional profile. Someone vetted by a man who has been doing this for years and, by all accounts, has never gotten it wrong.

That’s what the forum said.

So I’m here. After years of midnight wanting I was too ashamed to name. After finally admitting that the version of myself I present to the world isn’t the whole truth.

At night, I want to surrender.

And I’m done pretending that wanting that makes me broken.

“Ms. Beckett?” A woman in a sleek black dress appears at the inner door. “Mr. Laurent will see you now.”

I follow her down a corridor that grows quieter with each step. She opens a door and the room reaches me before I fully see it — leather, books, coffee, the smell of a space that takes its work seriously.

Then I step inside. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the wall behind the desk. Leather chairs that invite rather than intimidate. Soft lamplight, no overhead glare. A wood desk, dark and solid, grounded.

The man behind it stands when I enter and rounds it instead of staying behind it. As he moves I notice the small silver lines threading his dark hair.

“Ms. Beckett.” His accent is faintly French. “Please, sit.” He settles into the chair beside mine. “Thank you for coming. I know this takes courage.”

I almost laugh.

Courage isn’t the word I’d use.

“Tell me what brought you to sign up.”

“I’ve been thinking about it for years,” I say, before I can overthink it.

“Why now?”

I hesitate.

Because I’m tired and scared that if I don’t do this, I’ll never stop wondering.

“Does it matter?” I say instead. “Isn’t wanting it enough?”

He doesn’t react.

He waits.

The silence stretches.

I hate silence.