Like she’d researched my habits, my favorite restaurants, and arranged to meet-cute me at the noodle bar.
Only now...That script doesn’t track.
She’s here singing. And I know I had nothing to do with it.
Sterling must have found her on his own, through his constant scouting for new talent.
Can it be that she didn’t plan any of this?
Bix finishes. The lights snap on, cool and bright overhead.
Sterling turns and spots me. “Ah, the Dark Prince has arrived.”
Bix looks toward the sound of his voice. I watch confusion cross her face as she sees me in full Slayer mode—black jacket, silver chains, dark lenses hiding my eyes.
Her gaze travels over me, my height, my shoulders, the line of my jaw. I see the precise moment she realizes I’m theSamof last night.
Her breath catches.
Her body stills. Those green eyes widen the same way they did when I opened my wine collection.
“Ms. Bismark,” Sterling says, gesturing between us with something close to a theatrical flourish. “Meet Slayer, an artist who needs no introduction.”
Bix looks at me, frozen.
I shoot Sterling awhat-the-hell-is-this-about?look.
But Sterling, either oblivious to the tension or more likely enjoying it, just continues.
“Slayer, I’d like to speak to you in my office. Milo, will you keep Ms. Bismark company?”
Milo nods, barely looking up from his phone. “Of course, Mr. S.”
“Shall we?” Sterling says, already striding for the door.
I follow him out, feeling Bix’s eyes burning into my back with each step.
CHAPTER 17
SLAYER
Sterling’s office is all dark wood and strategic lighting. The focal point is the large window that overlooks the iconic theaters of 42nd Street.
Usually, I take time to admire this exceptional glimpse into old Broadway. But today I remain standing as he circles behind his desk, the space between us charged with tension.
“How is it that you kept your new girlfriend under wraps for so long?” he asks.
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“No? You must not have seen Vanessa Sinclair’s column this morning,” he says, tossing me his device.
I turn the screen towards me. There we are in Vanessa’s column—Bix and me, stepping out of the noodle shop. The headline reads:“Dark Prince’s New Muse?”
I scoff. “You know theNew York Herald. Vanessa likes to make things up on a slow news day.”
“Not so slow,” Sterling counters. “Everyone’s asking about your new girl online.”
“She’s nobody.” The words come out harsher than I intended.
