"Now," Jessie says, turning to survey the room, "let's find you a benefactor."
The word makes me cringe, but I follow her gaze around the club. The patrons are predominantly men in their forties and fifties, all impeccably dressed in suits that probably cost more than my tuition. They exude confidence and power in a way that makes the air feel charged. Scattered among them are women—young, beautiful, and attentive. They laugh at jokes, touch arms lightly, lean in to whisper in ears.
"See that man over there?" Jessie nods toward a silver-haired gentleman seated alone in a booth. "That's Judge Harrington. He likes intellectual conversation about politics and art. He pays for his companion's apartment, wardrobe, and travel. In return, she accompanies him to events and spends weekends at his Hamptons house."
"And sleeps with him," I add flatly.
Jessie shrugs. "She's been with him for two years. I think she genuinely likes him."
She continues her inventory of the room, pointing out a tech CEO who "likes to be dominated, if you can believe it" and a real estate mogul who "only dates ballerinas, so not for you."
I feel increasingly ill, the vodka sitting heavy in my stomach. These men look at the women not as people but as acquisitions. And now I'm considering making myself one of them.
"I need the restroom," I mutter, setting down my barely-touched drink.
The women's restroom is as opulent as the rest of the club, with individual vanity stations and a lounge area with velvet chaises. Two women stand at the mirrors, touching up already-perfect makeup. They glance at me with thinly veiled disdain.
"New girl?" one asks the other, not bothering to lower her voice.
"Obviously," the second replies. "Look at that dress. Clearance rack at best."
I lock myself in a stall and lean against the door, breathing deeply. What am I doing here? This isn't me. I'm not the kind of person who sells herself, no matter how "elite" the packaging.
But then I think of my tiny apartment, the eviction notice, the administrative withdrawal from school. I think of all the years of work, all my parents' hopes, all my own dreams—all of it slipping away because of money. Just money.
When I emerge from the stall, the women are gone. I wash my hands and stare at my reflection in the mirror. The lighting is forgiving, but I still look out of place—a sparrow among peacocks.
"Just once," I tell my reflection. "Just to get back on my feet."
I return to the bar to find Jessie chatting with a man whose watch probably costs more than everything I own. She waves me over enthusiastically.
"Del! Come meet Richard. He's in pharmaceuticals."
Richard eyes me with the clinical assessment of someone inspecting merchandise. I feel my resolve crumbling.
"Actually," I start, ready to make my excuses and leave, when a disturbance at the entrance catches everyone's attention.
The crowd parts like the Red Sea, conversations pausing mid-sentence. A man has entered—tall and imposing in a perfectly tailored black suit. Even from across the room, I can feel the authority radiating from him. His dark hair is touched with silver at the temples, and his sharp features could cut glass.
"Who is that?" I ask, unable to look away.
Jessie follows my gaze and inhales sharply. "That's Roman Wolfe. CEO of Wolfe Enterprises." She grips my arm tightly. "Del, he never comes here. He owns half the city but he's practically a recluse."
"Why is everyone acting like the principal just walked in?"
"Because he's dangerous," she whispers. "They say he destroyed a rival company because its CEO outbid him on a painting he wanted. The man has no mercy in business or pleasure."
As if he can hear us, Roman Wolfe's head turns in our direction. Even from across the room, I can feel the weight of his gaze—cold, calculating, predatory.
And fixed directly on me.
three
. . .
His eyes lockwith mine across the crowded room, and something inside me goes still—a prey animal sensing a predator. The club continues to buzz around us, but the noise fades to a dull hum as Roman Wolfe watches me with the focused intensity of a man who has just identified exactly what he wants. And what he wants, impossibly, is me.
I should look away. Every instinct screams to break this connection, to disappear into the background where I belong. But I can't move, can't breathe, can't do anything but stare back at him like a rabbit hypnotized by a wolf.
