“Yeah?” He cuts low. “And who am I in your version of the play, Josephine? The entertainment? The rough souvenir? You wanted to slum it for a few days with the help, get your hands dirty before heading back to your world of diamonds and champagne?”
“Don’t you dare,” I snap. “You haveno ideawhat my world is.”
“Then why hide it?” His voice rises. “Why not just say who you are?”
“Because I wanted you to see me!” The words crack out of me. “Not my trust fund. Not my family name.Me.Joy. The girl who dances. Who makes you laugh. Who—” My voice breaks. “Because this—” I gesture wildly between us—”is what happens. The second people know, they stop seeing me. They just?—”
I stop, helplessly. It’s pointless. “And you just proved me right.”
He steps closer, eyes blazing. “You lied to me.”
“Iprotected myself.”
“From what? Me?”
“From this!” I shout, shaking. “From being turned into exactly what you’re accusing me of—a spoiled rich girl who needs a regular guy to make her feel alive for five minutes.”
He flinches. For a heartbeat, he looks wrecked. Then he laughs, a quiet, broken sound that isn’t really laughter at all. “So what’s the number? Was it worth it?”
“It’s twelve million, okay?” The words tear out of me. “Twelve. Million. Dollars.”
His face doesn’t change. Somehow that’s worse than shock.
“Would you have turned me down if you’d known? Or did you just want a better rate?”
I don’t even recognize the voice coming out of my throat. The things I’m throwing at him don’t belong to me; they belong to the panic, the shame, the sight of him cracking right in front of me.
His laugh is soft and broken. “You should’ve told me who you are.” He takes a breath that sounds like it hurts. “You should’ve at least told me your name.”
“I did tell you my name. My name is Joy. Joy Preston.” Tears burn, sharp and furious. “Yes, my birth certificate says Josephine Osgood Yardley Preston. Did you need all four before you said you wanted to be my real?”
The silence after that is a gunshot. He stares at me, eyes hollowed out. “No,” he says finally, voice rough. “But your first name would’ve been nice to know.”
The air between us hums—alive, electric. He’s still breathing hard. So am I.
“Don’t turn this into something it’s not,” I whisper. “You don’t get to play the wounded hero. You got what you wanted—your ex cracked open, your ego fed. Congratulations.”
His expression goes dark. “That’s not what I want.”
“Then what is it?” My voice shakes, fury bubbling over. “Because you sure as hell don’t want the real me.”
His thumb drags across my lower lip, not gentle. “Then show me.”
“I don’t owe you real.”
“Bullshit.” His mouth slams into mine.
The kiss is violent heat—pain, anger, want—everything we can’t say. I grab his jacket, shove it off his shoulders.
He breaks away, breathing hard. “Don’t.” I haul him back. “Please. Just?—”
My fingers fumble at his buttons, shaking. I need his skin under my palms. His eyes search mine, then he grips my hips, rough, sliding under silk, tearing what’s in his way. The sound that leaves me isn’t a moan, it’s a broken plea. He bites down, hungry, tasting apology and blame in equal measure.
We stumble back, collide with the wall. I shove him. He shoves back. The world narrows to heat and breath, hurt blurred into want. It’s not love. It’s punishment. For both of us.
He fists my hair, forcing my head back, and I can’t decide if I want to hit him or pull him closer.
“Is this what you want, Josephine?” he growls against my neck. “A bit of dark and mean? You want the scratch, the bite?”
