Hazel James had a deep-seated disdain for the winters in New York City.
As she rushed down Fifth Avenue, the biting wind grazed her cheeks with a cutting chill that made her shiver. Gripping the strap of her well-loved leather bag, she felt the familiar weight of urgency settle in her chest. Once again, she was running late for her shift at the bustling hotel lounge, and with each passing minute, she could almost hear the thin veneer of her manager's patience wearing away. Yet, despite the mounting pressure, she knew all too well that her financial obligations wouldn't wait for her to catch a break,bills were relentless, and her mother's escalating hospital expenses loomed large in her mind. As she navigated through the crowd, each hurried step felt like a reminder that in this city, time was never on her side.
As Hazel stepped into the radiant lobby of The Sterling Hotel, a welcoming warmth enveloped her, reminiscent of a soft, luxurious velvet glove. The atmosphere was alive with a symphony of voices and laughter, but amid the bustling crowd, she felt a flicker of uncertainty. She took a moment to smooth down the fabric of her dress, the delicate material responding to her touch. Glancing up at her reflection in a polished mirrored pillar, she adjusted her hair and practiced a smile , the type of smile that, despite its outward brightness, never quite reached the depths of her eyes. This evening, she would don the role of a gracious server, pouring champagne and mingling with the guests, all the while pretending to fit into a glamorous world that seemed perpetually just out of her reach. It was a delicate act of masquerade, one that she had rehearsed many times in her mind but still felt out of place, like a puzzle piece that would never find its rightful spot.
The lounge was already buzzing with a warm and inviting atmosphere, enriched by the low, sultry notes of jazz that flowed gently from hidden speakers positioned throughout the room. The delightful sound of clinking glasses mixed with the soft, melodic hum of laughter from patrons who were clearly enjoying a night out on the town, their affluence evident in their cheerful conversations.
Hazel, in a moment of focused determination, slipped behind the polished bar. With her gaze cast downward to avoid any distractions, she meticulously arranged the delicate crystal stemware, ensuring that everything was perfectly in place. Each piece was carefully positioned, reflecting the dim light and adding to the sense of elegance that permeated the room.
But then, amidst her task, she sensed something—a peculiar sensation that sent an unsettling shiver down her spine. It was that familiar prickling feeling at the back of her neck, the kind that sharply reminded her that she was not alone; someone's gaze was fixed upon her.
Cautiously, she lifted her eyes, and in that brief moment, she felt her heart skip a beat as she froze in place, acutely aware of the presence that had captured her attention.
In a cozy yet dimly lit corner of the room, nestled within the confines of a rich, leather booth, there sat a man whose presence commanded attention as if reality itself conformed to his desires. His dark hair was slicked back with effortless elegance, while his jawline was chiseled and sharp, a testament to a strikingly handsome visage that seemed almost too perfect. His eyes, a captivating shade of gray, held a piercing gaze that appeared to penetrate the murky ambiance, as if he could see right through the layers of smoke and shadow enveloping the space. Although his lips were drawn in a firm line, not even a hint of a smile graced his face, there was an undeniable aura about him that exuded a sense of power, danger, and tantalizing promise all intertwined in a single glance.
This was Ethan Cross—a name that resonated in the halls of opulence and influence. A billionaire rumored to possess an impressive portion of Manhattan real estate, his reputation was a complex tapestry woven with threads of both admiration and dread. Whispers of his exploits floated through the air, often shared in hushed tones among the elite, mixing awe with a twinge of fear. Hazel, who had only encountered him within the glossy pages of luxurious magazines or heard hushed discussions entreated amongst the upper crust, now found herself captivated by him in the flesh. He was staring directly at her, and in that moment, it felt as if she were the only thing in his universe worthy of his attention. It was a gaze that held weight, making her heart race and curiosity stir within her, and she couldn't help but wonder what thoughts lay behind those mesmerizing gray eyes.
Her heart raced.
She quickly turned her gaze elsewhere, but she could still feel the intensity of his stare, like a warm touch on her skin.
"Hazel," her manager called sharply, pulling her back to reality. "Booth seven. Mr. Cross has requested you personally."
Her heart pounded in her chest. It was rare for guests to ask for her specifically. With a calm exterior that belied the whirlwind inside, she picked up a bottle of champagne and made her way across the room.
As she approached, the atmosphere seemed to thicken. Ethan sat still, not even blinking. When she finally arrived at his table, his eyes roamed over her slowly and intentionally, as if he were trying to commit every detail to memory.
"Mr. Cross," she finally said, placing the bottle down beside her. "Would you like me to serve you a drink?"
A subtle smile played on his lips, one that suggested he knew something she didn't.
"I'd actually prefer if you took a seat."
Hazel felt her breath hitch in her throat.
"That's... not allowed."
"Not yet," he replied, his voice smooth like velvet. "Some rules can be bent for the right individuals."
In that moment, she knew she should've just walked away. She should've laughed it off, poured his drink, and returned to the comfort of the bar. But as Ethan's fingers lightly traced the glass—calm and purposeful—she felt a flutter of heat in her stomach that was entirely new to her.
Trying to remain steady, she poured the drink, acutely aware of his gaze tracking her every move, shifting from her lips to her throat and back to her eyes.
"You're new here," he stated, not bothering to make it a question.
Hazel swallowed hard. "Not really. Just… I tend to blend in."
"That's a lie," Ethan said softly, raising his glass as he spoke. "I noticed you the moment you stepped through the door."
Her cheeks flushed with warmth, and she found herself annoyed by it. Men like him were trouble. They didn't just see you; they engulfed you entirely. Yet, the magnetic pull of his gaze kept her rooted to the spot, longer than she intended.
"Tell me, Hazel…" He spoke her name like a gentle caress, as if it were something he had cherished all along. "What's your price?"
His question hung in the air, electric and enticing, charged with possibilities.
She knew she should keep quiet. She knew she should walk away. But instead, Hazel found herself leaning in, her voice just above a whisper.
"What do you think it is?" he asked, his eyes glinting with mischief.
Ethan's smile widened, spreading across his face in a slow, almost hypnotic way that felt both charming and a little bit dangerous. In that fleeting moment, Hazel experienced a rush of realization that left her breathless. Two undeniable truths struck her with clarity: First, she had unwittingly entered a complicated game where the rules were far beyond her grasp, leaving her feeling both exhilarated and apprehensive. Second, she recognized an undeniable urge to stay in this game, drawn in by the thrill of uncertainty and the magnetic pull of Ethan's enigmatic presence.
There was no question in her mind; despite the risks, she was not ready to turn back now.