Lila’s POV

I studied Mason Sterling like the scripture for one week. I memorized every article, and scrap of information about him that was available online. I know about his father and the sister he adores—Ava Sterling, with her soft heart and socialite smiles. I know that he's currently the Vice President of Sterling Group and has a best friend, Nicholas “Nick” Thompson.

But there was no mention of a mother. No photos or information about her. It made me curious, and in my line of work, curiosity always leads to control.

I sat in my car earlier this evening, parked inconspicuously across from Sterling Group’s gigantic building. When he finally exited, Ava skipped along beside him. They were followed by Nick.

I tailed them to the club, and changed quickly into the red dress I brought because tonight is the night I finally meet my target, on his 30th birthday.

I walked in, my heels clicked against the marble floor as I slightly swayed my hips and smiled at the men who were openly ogling me. Confidence is my armor and charm is my weapon.

I scanned the crowd, pretending to be casual but my gaze was sharp. The music throbbed with bass-heavy intent, and the stench of sweat and liquor clung to the air. Couples ground against each other like tomorrow wasn’t promised. Businessmen chased away loneliness with expensive champagne and shallow laughter.

And then I spotted him sitting on a bar stool beside his sister. She was leaning in, animated, probably trying to coax a smile out of his stiff features. He nodded along, swirling the liquid in his glass, giving her enough attention to seem interested but I could tell he wasn't bothered by whatever she was saying.

Even from here, I could feel the exhaustion in his posture. I waited for the perfect opening—watching the group like a hawk. Ava eventually got up to dance, dragging Nick along with her. Mason waved them off, clearly uninterested. He remained behind, alone, sipping from his glass with the indifference of someone used to solitude.

Now is my chance.

I made my way towards him—slowly and deliberately, making sure he saw me before I reached the bar. A woman walking with purpose catches attention. I sat on the stool beside him, not too close to seem desperate, but not too far to be overlooked.

He turned slightly to glance at me.

I smiled, a little amused, like I’d been thinking of something funny before I walked in.

“Rough day?” I asked, nodding toward his untouched second drink.

He studied me for a beat too long. “You could say that.”

His voice was deep with the kind of edge that tells you not to waste his time.

“Let me guess…” I swiveled toward him, crossing one leg over the other slowly. “You hate birthdays, don’t you?”

His brow lifted just enough to confirm it.

Bullseye.

“How did you know it's my birthday?” He looked at me with suspicion and curiosity.

I smiled and said, “I overheard the lady with you saying something about you loosening up because it's your birthday.”

“I don’t hate them,” he said. “I just don’t see the point.”

“Why don't you see the point of celebrating birthdays?”

He sipped from his glass and shrugged, “It’s just another day, a reminder that we have very little time to achieve so much.”

I hummed. “You've just spoken like someone who was raised on structure and pressure instead of balloons and cake.”

He blinked, caught off guard for half a second.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

“No, you don't” I replied, sipping from my drink. “But I know your type.”

He tilted his head. “My type?”

I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice so it was only for him. “The kind of man who carries a lot of weight and forgets that he needs to unwind and live a little.”

He stared at me again, longer this time.

“You sound a lot like my sister,” he said dryly.

I laughed lightly. “Well, your sister is right and I'm just a girl in a red dress who happens to be observant.”

“I’ve met a lot of girls in red dresses,” he said, eyes narrowing. “They usually want something.”

I tilted my head. “And you think I want something?”

“Don’t you?”

I shrugged. “Maybe just a conversation with someone who looks like he needs company.”

He glanced back at his drink, but his grip on the glass loosened.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he said finally.

“You didn’t ask,” I replied, lips curving.

He huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh.

I extended my hand. “Cassidy.”

He hesitated, then shook it. His palm was warm, but firm.

“Mason,” he said.

I smiled.

“It's nice to meet you, Mason.”

He nodded but said nothing else.

I sipped my drink again and leaned back, smiling to myself.

Phase one, accomplished.