I shook my head.

I didn’t trust myself to say anything—not with the magazine still open in front of me, that cold, impossible gaze staring up at me like a warning. I can't do this!.

But Vanessa didn’t take no for an answer.

“Aria.”

Her voice followed me as I turned away, heading for downstairs. My steps were stiff, my heartbeat a messy throb in my throat.

“Aria, come on.”

I reached for the door that led outside.

She caught my wrist before I could shut it, her nails painted a glossy nude that somehow made her grip feel even more deliberate.

“Don’t be difficult.”

I closed my eyes.

“This isn’t me being difficult,” I said quietly. “This is me not wanting to be…used.”

“Used?” Her laugh was light and disbelieving. “Please. Do you think I’d ever ask you for anything if I wasn’t desperate?”

That stung more than I wanted to admit.

She must have seen it, because her expression softened—just enough to look convincing.

“Aria,” she tried again, her voice dropping into that coaxing lilt she’d perfected since we were children. “I’m serious. I need this. He’s not just some fling—he could change everything. Do you really want me to spend the rest of my life scrabbling for scraps while you…what? Pour drinks?”

I stared at her, resentment crawling up my spine like something alive. She had a good job,so what else is she looking for?.

“You think this is about money?”

Vanessa lifted one shoulder in a graceful shrug.

“It’s always about money.”

My chest felt too tight to breathe.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re naive,” she shot back, though her smile didn’t waver. “Come on. One conversation. That’s all I’m asking. Just…make him notice me.”

When I stayed silent, she sighed,an exasperated, theatrical sound—and stepped closer.

Her perfume wrapped around me, thick and cloying.

“I’m begging you,” she said softly. “If you ever loved me at all…please.”

I closed my eyes. Did your mother ever love me?

Because the thing was—I had loved her once. Before all the lies and the comparisons and the little cruelties of her mother that never quite looked like cruelty.

I’d loved her so much it still hurt.

And that was how she always got me.

When I finally nodded, her relief was immediate—bright and satisfied.

“Thank you,” she breathed, releasing my wrist.

She leaned in and pressed a kiss to my cheek,warm and possessive, like she’d just claimed her victory.

Then she reached into her purse and pulled out a folded slip of paper.

“Everything he needs to know,” she said, tucking it into my hand. “Where I stay. My occupation. What I'm looking for.”

I sighed then took the papers from her and left.

*********

By the time my shift started, I’d convinced myself I could do this.

It was one conversation. One favor.

Then Vanessa would owe me, and maybe,for once,she’d leave me in peace.

The boutique bar was already buzzing when I arrived.

Low lighting, gleaming mahogany, a soft pulse of music that made everything feel more intimate than it should have.

I slipped behind the counter, offering a small smile to Celia, who was already mixing something bright and lethal in a crystal shaker.

“Hey,” she said, giving me a sympathetic look. “Rough day?”

“You could say that,” I muttered.

Her eyes flicked over me—lingering on my face like she was searching for bruises.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Just a long night,” I lied.

She didn’t press.

I was grateful for that.

I stashed my bag in the back, smoothed my hair in the small, scratched mirror, and forced my expression into something that wouldn’t get me fired.

By nightfall, the bar was packed.

Men in sharp suits and watches that cost more than my yearly rent crowded the high tables, their voices low and self-assured. Women draped over velvet stools, laughing into cocktails. The hotel I worked in was a five star hotel.

I told myself it was no different from any other shift.

Except it was.

Because every time the door opened, I felt it…my heart giving a stupid, traitorous jump, wondering if it was him.

Not just the billionaire from the magazine.

The man from the bar.

The man who watched me like he already owned every inch of my skin.

********

I lasted an hour behind the bar before my nerves made it impossible to stand still.

“I’m taking a break,” I told Celia, my voice too thin.

She barely looked up. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

I slipped out from behind the counter and started to drift through the crowd, my tray held loosely at my side.

If anyone asked, I’d say I was checking on tables.

Really, I was searching.

My eyes skimmed over suits and polished haircuts, past women laughing too loud and men who didn’t bother to look at me.

I tried to tell myself I was relieved.

I didn’t want to see him.

Didn’t want to feel that heat again.

But when the door swung open and a rush of cold air chased over my bare arms, my breath still caught.

It was just another group—three men in expensive coats. None of them looked familiar.

I let out a slow breath, pressing my palm flat against my fluttering ribs.

Get a grip.

I turned back toward the bar—and collided with something solid.

I stumbled, barely catching myself before I fell.

The man I’d run into was tall and thick around the middle, his face flushed an angry red. His eyes were glassy, unfocused.

He smelled like cheap whiskey and entitlement.

“Watch it,” he slurred, though he didn’t step back.

“Sorry,” I muttered, trying to slide past.

His hand shot out, closing around my upper arm.

“I said, watch it.”

Panic flashed bright and hot behind my ribs.

“Sir, let go,” I said, more forcefully.

He didn’t.

Instead, his gaze flicked over me—taking inventory in a way that made my skin crawl in irritation.

“You know, I’ve seen you behind the bar,” he said, his breath sour against my cheek. “You look better up close.”

My stomach twisted.

“Let go of me” I tried again, my voice thin.

His fingers tightened, bruising.

“Maybe you should show me a little gratitude,” he muttered.

I didn’t get the chance to answer.

Because suddenly, a hand clamped down on the drunk man’s wrist…hard enough that I heard the sharp intake of pain.

“Let her go,” a voice said—low, calm, and edged with something that made my heart stop.

I knew that voice.

Even before the drunk stumbled back with a muttered curse, even before I was pulled against a solid chest, I knew.

Heat flooded every nerve as strong arms closed around me, guiding me firmly away from the gawkers who had started to turn in curiosity.

I knew.

Knew the clean, cold scent that clung to him.

Knew the steady, possessive pressure of his hand against my waist.

Knew the way my pulse tripped and crashed, my body recognizing him even when my mind screamed denial.

Slowly, I tilted my head back—just enough to look up into his face.

And everything in me went still.

Damien Blackwood looked down at me with the same expression he’d worn in that photograph.

Remote. Certain.

Like he’d known all along I would end up exactly here.

His mouth curved, the barest suggestion of a smile that wasn’t warm at all.

“Miss Monroe,” he murmured, his thumb brushing my side in a caress that felt more like a claim.

“I believe we need to talk.”