My heart nearly stops.
It’s a man in a suit, thinning hair slicked back like a businessman’s, his smirk already making my skin crawl. And what’s worse: I know this man. His face is familiar, but I can’t place it. I search the photo for any details; the only one is a sign hanging in the background that says Association of Northeast Surgeons Gala. I move to my internet search window and type in the name of the event. The first result that pops up is the website for the gala, and at the top of the website is the same photo of the man who’s apparently my next target. The caption reads Guest Speaker William H. Terry, Surgeon General of the United States.
I close the browser window and shut my laptop. The gravity of this moment hits me like a bag of bricks. This man is powerful, appointed by the president, and I’m supposed to go on a date with him, lure him into hurting me and then gather enough evidence to ruin his career? For the first time I think that this isn’t just a game—this is high stakes, something that could ruinme.... Spending time with powerful people like this could even be the end of me.
Everything in me wants to believe that this isn’t real, that whatever muddy situation I’ve found myself in is harmless, just a matter of exacting justice on pathetic little men... but this man isn’t little. He’s accomplished, he’s in the public eye, he has powerful friends—and for the first time I feel actual fear. I open my laptop again, composing a reply to Kat and The Society.
I’m sorry, I can’t.
Kat’s reply arrives before I can even close my browser window and forget this ever happened.
You must. You’re her only hope. She lives on disability now and the report she filed against him was ‘lost’. Wear the dress that’s being delivered to you. It’s red—his favorite color—he’ll find you.
My heart sinks as I realize what this is.
He thinks he’s hired a hooker for tonight.
And I’m it.
Seventeen
Ellie
The red dress itches.
It’s too tight in the chest, too short to sit in without tugging, too bright for a place like this. But that’s the point, isn’t it? To stand out. To lure. I sit in the corner booth of a dive bar on Amsterdam, surrounded by flickering neon signs and the stale stench of spilled beer and old secrets. The vinyl beneath me sticks to the backs of my thighs. I cross and uncross my legs, pretending I belong here, pretending this is just another night.
Then he walks in.
The Surgeon General.
He’s exactly what I expected and somehow worse—slicked-back hair with too much gel, a cheap suit trying to look expensive, and the kind of smug smile that makes your skin crawl. He’s scanning the room like he’s already claimed everything in it, and when his eyes land on me, I feel it in my spine.
“You here for me?” he says as he slides into the booth without asking. His voice is smooth like oil—thick, slick, dangerous.
I smile. Just a little. “Sure am.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t care. He flags thewaitress with a lazy wave. “Whiskey. Neat.” Then to me, “What do you want?”
“Soda.”
That makes him laugh. Loud, grating. “A sober one, huh? That’s unusual. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
I stare at him, unblinking. He thinks I’m playing a part. That’s fine. Let him. “Julie.”
“Sweet. I like that. You from the city?” he asks, leaning in, elbows on the sticky table. He smells like old sweat and too much aftershave.
“No.” I slide my black cardigan off. His eyes roam up and down my form with interest.
“Didn’t think so. You’ve got that lost-little-girl thing. Shame, really. Never lasts long in this business.”
His hand moves under the table, bold and slow, landing on my thigh like it has a right to be there. I don’t flinch. I reach down and remove it, calm as anything, like swatting a fly.
He laughs again, but there’s something sharp under it now. “Seriously? Most prudish hooker they’ve ever sent me.”
I tilt my head, forcing a smile. “They?”
“Yeah, your boss. Handler.Pimp.Whatever the hell you call him.” He lifts his glass, downs the whiskey in one swallow. “He promised me somethingspecial.Said you were new. Said you were good.”
