I should have said no. I should have blocked Mia's number, thrown my phone into the ocean, and moved into a monastery where the only men I'd ever see again were carved out of stone. But instead, here I am—standing in the marble lobby of the Corinthian Hotel, wearing a dress I definitely cannot afford, waiting to escort a seventy-eight-year-old millionaire to dinner because my best friend's mother slipped in the bathtub and fractured her hip. Reality has a cruel sense of humor, and my bank account is its favorite punchline.
"Please, Lena," Mia begged three hours ago. "He's harmless. He just wants company. He'll be asleep by ten. And he tips like he's allergic to money."
I'd been too broke—and too exhausted from pretending everything in my life wasn't on fire—to refuse. So I said yes. I painted my face, curled my hair, and stepped into a dress that felt like it was held together with hope and desperation. Then the universe decided to punish me for that optimism, because the moment I step out from behind the column to greet Mr. Harold Sutton—bald, cheerful, wearing suspenders and orthopedic shoes—I feel a familiar, icy burn slither down my spine. A presence. A memory. A ghost I never wanted to see again.
I turn—and there he is.
Adrian Vale. Eight years older. Infinitely richer. Unfairly hotter. And looking at me like I just crawled out of the sewer and tracked filth across his Italian leather shoes. My heart leaps into my throat so fast I nearly choke on it.
No. Not him. Not now. Not while I'm doing this. Not while I'm playing the role of "pleasant female dinner companion" when he is the last person alive I ever wanted witnessing this chapter of my life.
I try to pretend I don't see him, but he's impossible to ignore. Adrian always commanded a room, even back in college when he was just a brilliant, infuriating boy who could make professors stutter. But now? Now he stands in the center of the lobby like a lion blocking the only exit, posture relaxed but predatory, eyes cutting straight through me the second Mr. Sutton's hand touches my arm.
"Lena?" Mr. Sutton beams. "You look lovely tonight!"
I force a bright smile. "Thank you, sir."
Adrian's face goes razor-flat. Then—because fate enjoys stabbing me in the ribs—Mr. Sutton lifts my hand and presses a polite kiss to my knuckles. The look on Adrian's face darkens instantly, sharp and lethal, as if he's watching someone defile a holy relic. I part my lips to explain—well, lie, but with dignity—when his voice slices through the lobby.
"I didn't know you were still working your way through wealthy donors."
My stomach plummets. "Excuse me?" I whisper.
He steps closer, slow and controlled, hands in his pockets like he owns the oxygen in the room. "You left me for money in college. I see nothing's changed."
My blood freezes. I left him? For money? He has no idea. He never bothered to ask what really happened—never wanted to. He just swallowed whatever poisonous story someone whispered in his ear and turned his back on me like I was an inconvenience he'd finally outgrown.
I swallow hard, forcing air into my burning lungs. "Move, Adrian. I'm working."
"Oh, I can see that." His eyes drag over Mr. Sutton—sweet, confused, unaware he's being used as a weapon. "Expanding your clientele?"
Eight years—eight years—and he still believes the lie someone fed him. Eight years of silence, of no closure, no explanation, nothing but one devastating winter night that cracked me open like glass and left him walking away with the good version of the story.
I open my mouth to finally say everything I've held back, but Mr. Sutton pats my hand.
"Dinner, dear?"
Focus. Survive. Get paid. Leave. "Yes. Dinner." I slip my arm through his and guide him toward the restaurant. But Adrian steps into our path. Right into it. I swear my heart stops.
"Move," I say quietly.
He doesn't budge. His gaze drags—slow, cutting—from Mr. Sutton's hand on my arm to the glittery dress Mia forced me into. He looks at me the way someone looks at fruit that has just begun to rot—mild disgust, mild pity, mostly disappointment in the universe. Before he can spit something worse, a security guard approaches.
"Mr. Vale, your penthouse suite is prepared. Would you like to go up?"
Adrian doesn't look at him. He doesn't look away from me. "No. I want to eat first."
He's staying. To watch. To judge. To confirm whatever disgusting theory he's written in his mind about why I'm here with a seventy-eight-year-old man. He wants to see the spectacle. Of course he does. He always liked answers, and he thinks he's finally found one tonight.
By the time we're halfway through starters and soup, Mr. Sutton is describing a yacht explosion with wild enthusiasm. I'm nodding politely, sipping from my spoon, pretending I'm not hyperaware of Adrian's presence like a wolf pacing behind a glass wall. That's when a shadow glides across the table.
"Miss Hale," the maître d' says smoothly, presenting a small gold-plated platter. A cream envelope rests on it, sealed and elegant. "This is for you."
"For me?" I blink. The agency already took its dinner fee. Tips come at the end of the night.
"Yes, miss."
I slide the envelope closer, pulse picking up. The weight is light but stiff. I open it beneath the tablecloth and freeze.
$15,000.
A check.
Signed in Adrian Vale's distinctive, arrogant handwriting.
My stomach drops. A cold, sick feeling spreads through my chest. Before I can breathe, something shifts across the room. Adrian. Still at his table. Still pretending to eat. Still analyzing me like I'm a crime scene. His steak remains untouched, his wine glass full, his jaw clenched so hard it looks painful.
He lifts his hand and taps two fingers against his temple.
Think.
My blood heats. He thinks I'm the kind of desperate idiot who would tuck his check into my purse with a grateful smile and pretend this isn't a humiliation wrapped in financial bait. I shake my head slightly, ready to refuse—but Adrian moves again.
Two fingers. Raised.
Twenty.
Twenty thousand dollars.
A price. A number. A valuation. My blood runs cold. My father's debt flashes through my mind—half a million dollars—circling like vultures waiting for the body to fall still. My hand trembles and I place it on my chest to steady myself. Mr. Sutton mistakes the motion as encouragement to continue his story, completely unaware of the silent war unfolding across white linen and crystal stemware.
I swallow hard. Adrian leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and tilts his head with practiced, bored precision.
Go on. Take it. Prove me right.
Something in me snaps upright. My spine straightens, my lungs fill, and rage burns away the last shred of shame. I pick up the envelope and slip it into my purse. Slow. Deliberate. Controlled.
Across the room, Adrian's expression doesn't twist in disgust—it settles, like a switch flipping behind his eyes. So I lift my own hand, raise two fingers, and smile. His gaze hardens. Sharpens. Finalizes.
He picks up his steak knife, rotates it once between his fingers, and sets it down with surgical calm. He doesn't look at me. He doesn't need to. In that moment, the truth slices straight through me: he isn't judging me. He's evaluating me. Pricing me. Calculating exactly what he believes I just agreed to. The same way he evaluates companies before he buys them out and guts them clean.
Mr. Sutton excuses himself to the restroom, leaving me alone with my purse and the weight of Adrian's conclusions pressing into my skin. I force myself to inhale, but the air is thick, heavy, suffocating. When I look up again—against my better judgment—Adrian isn't even watching me. He's eating now. Small, deliberate bites of steak, as if fueling himself for whatever he has already decided will happen next. No smile. No smirk. Just the faintest tilt of his mouth—the satisfaction of a businessman who believes a long-awaited deal has closed.
"You took the money. So you're mine for the night."
I hear it in my head even though he hasn't said a word.
I swallow hard. Anger prickles along my spine—not at him—but at myself, for one awful moment becoming the girl he thinks I am.
"He is nothing to me now," I whisper. A lie. Paper-thin. Already tearing.
Across the room, Adrian stands. He drops his napkin, straightens his cuffs, and gives the smallest nod toward the exit. A signal. A summons. A bill being called due. Then his gaze locks with mine—dark, unreadable, unyielding—and my heart slams so hard against my ribs I almost gasp.
Because I know exactly what conclusion he's drawn.
And worse—
I know exactly what he intends to collect.