Chapter 1: Alessia
The sign on the front door saysPrivate Event. I walk right past it, ignoring it the same way that I ignored months of warning signs that my ex-husband was cheating on me because I didn’t want to believe it was true.
Inside the restaurant, it's warm and loud and exactly the kind of bar that keeps mistletoe hanging past Christmas Day out of sheer laziness. I clock it immediately, a dusty little sprig near the men's restroom, and file that away for later. I’m certain I can use it to my advantage.
I slide onto a barstool near the back, away from the loud voices and celebration, shrug off my coat, and let it drape over the back of the chair. A quick tug of my off-the-shoulder top a little lower, a toss of my loose, dark curls over one shoulder, and I'm ready to work. There are at least a hundred people in here tonight and most of them are staring curiously at me which means I need to pretend to belong.
The single bartender's name tag saysCody. I turn up all the charm I can muster and lean forward on my elbows, being sure my full chest is visible without giving too much away.
"Cody," I say, hitting him with my best smile and a bat of my dark, mascara-covered lashes. "How's McKayla's daughter? Back from Europe yet?"
His brows furrow. "Um, she’s doing well. I'm sorry, have we met before?"
We haven't. But the cab ride into Manhattan gave me plenty of time to research the bar manager, and her daughter's glamorous European trip was all over her social media. She should really make those posts private. It’s a safety concern and I would know. I use that kind of information to do research before each case.
Unfortunately for me, my target tonight doesn’t have a social media presence or really any online presence at all unless you consider his recent feature inProperty Todaywhich talked about how he’s been ranked in the top ten billionaires under forty category.
I keep my expression easy, my hand covering his on the bar top like we’re old friends catching up and not complete strangers.
"Yes, I was in here with McKayla a few months ago. I'm an old friend of hers, silly."
His face clears like that makes sense. It shouldn’t.
"Sure… yes… I remember you…?"
"Christina," I say, and hold out my hand for a shake.
Rule number one: never give your real name when you're working. The last thing I need is my new kindergarteners finding out their teacher works as some knockoffKim Possibleon the weekends because she’s trying to pay off her divorce debt.
"Christina," he repeats, his eyes dropping straight to my chest before he places his hand in mine and squeezes.
Predictable.Completely and utterly predictable. This is why I never do surveillance on women. They can’t be distracted this easily by a nice pair of tits.
"Drinks are on the house tonight, Tina."
Christina was fine.
I slap my palm on the cool, wooden surface. "Great! I'll take a martini then."
He heads off to make it and I spin on my stool to observe the room. The space is packed, warm, and loud, mostly male employees who look like they just came from the job site. Many are still wearing their dirty clothes and a few hard hats.
I notice the single woman in the crowd. She catches my eye with a look that says she knows I don't belong here at their holiday company party, drinking on her boss’s dime. I smile anyway. She gives a small nod and waves like she’s decided I’m okay to stay.
The group is loud and just big enough for me to blend in but not too large that I’ll miss my target. And as if I manifested his presence, the front door opens, and in walksRoman Carpenter.It’s a name fit for a soldier. And he looks like one, too.
Dark shirt buttoned all the way up except those two crucial ones at the collar, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms that screamI do my own heavy lifting. Jet-black hair that’s longer, in that way guys are styling it these days. Jawline sharp enough to cut glass and a nice, dark bit of scruffy beard.
He moves through his employees with the easy confidence of a man who's never once questioned whether he belongs somewhere, accepting high-fives and knocking knuckles while a group of extra drunk employee’s holler‘big boss man!’at him from across the room.
I roll my eyes and spin back to face the bar and take a deep breath.
Men like him make me sick. All muscle and confidence, tall and capable of succeeding at anything they try. It’s like they’ve had the world handed to them and rarely have to think about the future. He’s the kind of man who knows he could have almostany woman he wants with little effort, and they do exactly that.
They win the genetic lottery and spend the rest of their lives cashing in on it, exploiting the women who fall for them without realizing the trap. Guys who think trust is just a word and that it’s their mission to put their dicks in as many women as possible and gaslight you into feeling likeyou’rethe crazy one all while they lie and manipulate.
Sometimes they cheat. And sometimes they don’t. But theyalwaysplant insecurities, nurture them, and convince you thattheyare the prize in the relationship. Until one day you wake up and remember it was alwaysyou.
I know this type. Imarriedthis type, more or less, and I have the divorce debt and the five years of failed IVF to prove it.
