Madeline
I stood in front of the full-length mirror, the delicate straps of the pink stilettos wrapping high above my ankles with a bow. They were ridiculous. Impractical. And perfect. The kind of thing worn by women with too much confidence and nowhere to be.
I tilted one foot, admiring the way the curve of the heel lifted my calf. They were impossibly tall.
I picked up my phone and lifted it toward the mirror. Snapped a photo, the hem of the robe barely covering the tops of my thighs, the heels on full display.
Click.
I stared at the image for a second. Then I sent it and typed.
Thank you. <3 If you aren’t busy tonight, I’m still in the same hotel room.
I hit send. If I had given myself another moment to think about it. I wouldn’t have sent it.
The reply came in under a minute.
Do you want to wear them to dinner tonight?
Is there a dress code?
None. I’m just happy with the heels
And that robe, if you insist
Okay. What time? And where?
8pm. I’ll send the car. Restaurant’s called SAINT. You’ll like it.
Later that Night
The car dropped me off at an unmarked entrance. A single door framed in black stone with a gold number etched above it.
Inside, the world changed.
The lighting was low. Velvet draped the booths. The kind of place designed for secrets and the people who could afford to keep them. It was beautiful. And dangerous in a way only extreme wealth could be.
A maître d’ led me through a corridor flanked by arched mirrors and floor-to-ceiling glass that overlooked a private garden. When I entered he was already there.
Vince sat at a round table near the back, holding a glass of something dark. He looked up as I approached, and I felt his gaze.
Up.
Down.
Up again.
And slowly back down. He didn’t move. Just watched me like he was memorizing every inch.
“Come here,” he gestured.
“Most people say hello or ask how you are.”
He smirked. “I’m not most people.”
“No. You’re not.”
“Turn.”
