Sneak Peek Into The Book

In the early 2010s, I was the host of one of the hottest clubs in New York City. My bosses—two nightlife legends who’d survived every trend from bottle service to bitcoin bros—ran their empire like a machine. Every detail was choreographed: the smile at the door, the scent in the air, even the temperature on the dance floor.

At 9 p.m. sharp, the perfume system released a blend of sandal wood and vanilla that clung to everyone who walked through the door. It wasn’t just ambiance—it was branding. Every night felt like theater. I’d glide past the velvet rope with a clipboard in one hand, phone buzzing in the other, mentally juggling tables, names, and egos.

The DJ would test the sound with a low bass thump that made the walls at SL (Simyone Lounge) vibrate, where translucent panels of skulls and bones glowed beneath the light. A print of Dalí’s In Voluptas Mors—women’s bodies shaped into a skull—hung in the hallway, hinting at how pleasure and danger always blurred together.

We were all issued BlackBerrys and expected to reply to emails within five minutes. The handbook read like a survival guide: eat well, avoid carbs, never get wasted at work, and always look good. A free Equinox membership came with the role, though I was often there on three hours of sleep. We preached wellness while living off tequila shots and adrenaline.

My first real lesson came in week two. A promoter brought in a group of short fashion-school girls wearing flats and Forever 21 dresses. My manager leaned in and whispered, “Next time, tell him no. Wrong energy. If they don’t look like they belong in a magazine, they don’t get a prime table.”

I nodded—half shocked, half fascinated by how openly beauty was commodified.

At twenty-three, I was working the door with AJ, a nightlife legend known for his strict door and brutal honesty. He could size someone up in a second and decide their fate with a look. He embodied the first rule of the scene:

Be nice to everyone you know, and a bitch to everyone you don’t.

That’s how we survived.

By midnight, the line snaked down the block—people spilling into the street, clutching phones and cigarettes as they waited to be seen. Hedge-fund guys barked my name like we were old friends. Models kissed both cheeks, whispering which table they belonged to.

We tracked over 20,000 names—birthdays, favorite champagne, seating preferences. One client, a French entrepreneur, wanted Dom Pérignon with a single rose in the ice bucket. Another, a Wall Street regular, demanded his table face the DJ so the “new talent” could see him first.

I knew their wives’ and girlfriends’ names, their careers, even which cigars they hid in their jackets.

“They know what people want and how to look after people,” Victoria’s Secret Angel Karolína Kurková once told a reporter. She wasn’t wrong—our whole business ran on anticipation.

I didn’t work for tips; I worked for loyalty. A smile here, a perfectly timed table switch there—that’s what earned commissions and invitations to Miami, Vegas, Ibiza. When everyone clicked—the bussers clearing fast, the waitress pouring steady, the DJ reading the room—it felt like a symphony of chaos disguised as perfection.

Twice a week, no matter how late you’d stayed out, there were noon meetings in business casual. Management demanded promoter reports: How many girls? Were they tall? Did they leave before 2 a.m.?

I remember writing: “Group had great vibes. Designer clothes. All models over 5’9.”

Promoters’ paychecks depended on it. A stylish table of ten could make $500—but “weak energy” or “not the right look” could cut that in half. Money and beauty were the currency of the night.

One night stands out.

It was another packed Saturday—the kind where time blurred and my heels ached before midnight. I was darting from the door to the podium, seating tables, smoothing egos, arguing with guests who thought their name alone guaranteed entry.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a small woman in a tailored suit watching me. She didn’t fit the scene—no glitz, no glam—just sharp eyes and a quiet awe, like she couldn’t quite place what she was seeing.

“How old are you?” she asked over the bass.
“Twenty-three.”
Her eyes widened. “I’m a lawyer,” she said. “And you’re a shark.”

Her comment stopped me. I hadn’t thought of myself that way—but she wasn’t wrong.  In this world, empathy was a liability.

Nightlife had shaped me into someone who could read a room in seconds, negotiate under pressure, and keep her cool no matter how wild things got. It was business disguised as glamourous—and I was thriving in it.

Until I wasn’t.