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Because Will was my boss, I had planned to quit my job right away, but Matilda urged me never to
let heartbreak get in the way of very practical concerns, like work, paying rent, being responsible and
fulfilling obligations.
“Don’t give men that much power, Cassie. Get on with the task of living. You’ve had a lot of
practice this past year.”
I was such a tear-stained mess that morning. I wasn’t certain whether joining S.E.C.R.E.T. was the
right decision. But at least I was making a decision. That was new for me. Prior to S.E.C.R.E.T., I
always went with the most powerful force governing my life at any given time, usually my late
husband Scott’s. He had brought us to New Orleans almost eight years ago, but his drinking erased
any notion that we’d made a fresh start. We were separated when he died in a car wreck; he was
sober at the time, but still a broken man. I was broken as well. And for five years after, I worked hard
and slept fitfully, falling into a pattern of isolation and self-pity, until one day I found a diary detailing
one woman’s journey through a mysterious set of steps that seemed to have a lot to do with sex—a
journey that was transformative, to say the least.
Then I met Matilda Greene, the woman who became my Guide. She said she had come to the Café
Rose for the diary her friend had dropped, but really she came for me, to introduce me to
S.E.C.R.E.T., an underground group dedicated to helping women liberate themselves sexually, by
granting them sexual fantasies of their choice. Joining the group, letting these women arrange fantasies
for me, and finding the courage to go through with them, she said, would pull me out of my malaise.
She told me she’d help me, guide me and support me. Finally, after a week of turning the idea over in
my head, I said yes. It was a reluctant yes, but it was a yes nonetheless. After which my life changed
completely.
Over the course of a year, I had done fantastical things with unbelievably attractive men, things I
would never have thought possible. I let a gorgeous masseur pleasure me without asking for a thing in
return. I met a sexy British man in a dark bar who secretly brought me to orgasm in the middle of a
boisterous jazz show. I was taken by surprise, in many ways, by a tattooed bad-boy chef, who stole a
bit of my heart while ravaging me on a prep table in the Café’s kitchen. I learned to give the most
mind-blowing orgasm to a famous hip hop artist, who enthusiastically returned the favor, the memory
of which still makes me tingle when I hear his songs on the radio. I took a helicopter to a yacht, then
went overboard in a storm with the most handsome man I had ever laid eyes on. Not only did he
rescue me, but his whole (incredible) body restored my faith in mine. Then the Bayou Billionaire
himself, Pierre Castille, took me in the back of a limousine, after making me feel like the most
beautiful girl at the ball. I skied the risky black diamond runs with Theo, the adorable Frenchman who
pushed my sexual limits further than anyone had before. Then I went into sensory overload with a man
I could only feel, not see, during a night that was blindingly sexy in more ways than one.
Then came my final fantasy, when I chose my beloved Will. I chose Will over S.E.C.R.E.T. and
couldn’t have had a happier night, or a more glorious morning after.
Now, six weeks later, there was no Will waking me up on my birthday with a thousand kisses.
Instead, he was probably sleeping soundly next to Tracina, maybe even spooning her, his arms
wrapped around her growing belly. She was just shy of three months pregnant, but yesterday afternoon
she suddenly began lumbering around the Café like she was about to give birth at any moment. She
kept one hand in the middle of her back while pouring refills, groaning and stretching between serving
tables. She hadn’t cut down on her shifts yet; she wasn’t at the point of asking for help. Still, I wasn’t
the only one rolling my eyes at her exaggerated discomfort. Dell wiped down tables while I refilled