"Sit down, Veronica," she purred. "I knew you'd figure it out. You're the best."
"No," she agreed, her knee pressing against mine under the table. "You're a woman who understands that sometimes the biggest crime is playing small. My husband thinks a woman my age should be invisible. You and I know better."
That night, I tailed Mark to The Velvet Key . I wore a red dress that was a weapon in its own right, low-cut and tight. The bouncer let me pass with a nod. Inside, the lighting was crimson and gold. Older women in designer silks sat in velvet booths, laughing with men young enough to be their sons. But it wasn't tawdry. It was powerful. A matriarchy of desire.
Diana Whitmore was a vision of controlled fire. Forty-seven, silver-threaded black hair pulled into a severe bun, a dress that cost more than my car. But her eyes—green, sharp, hungry—told a different story. Milfs Like it Big - Veronica Avluv - Mistress P.I.
The case was a standard cheating husband. Follow the man in the gray suit to the motel, snap the photos, collect the check. Boring. Until it wasn't.
His name was Mark. Young, maybe twenty-five, with the kind of nervous energy that screamed he was in over his head. But he wasn't the target. His stepmother was.
"That's a private establishment," she said. "For women of a 'certain age' and the younger men who appreciate them. Mark has been seen there. With me." "Sit down, Veronica," she purred
"Mrs. Whitmore," I said, leaning back in my worn leather chair. "You believe your husband's son is... what, exactly? Stealing your jewelry?"
And there, in the corner, was Mark. But he wasn't with an impostor. He was with Diana.
Her other hand slid a thick envelope across the table. "I need evidence of my husband's infidelity. He's been seeing a woman in Santa Monica. Get me that, and I get my settlement. Mark and I can live well. And you?" She leaned closer, her breath warm on my ear. "You get to watch." "You're a woman who understands that sometimes the
I took the case. Not for the money—though it was good. I took it because I recognized the lie. Diana Whitmore wasn't a victim. She was a chess player, and I was a pawn.
"So you hired me to investigate... yourself?"
As I walked out of The Velvet Key , the rain had stopped. The city was still filthy. But for the first time in a long time, I wasn't just cleaning up other people's messes.
And it felt good.