“They’re gonna force her into an NDA, you know that,” Killian said as we walked out of the label offices and into the sticky New Orleans evening. The exhaust fumes mingled with the humid heat, making a pressure cooker out of the city.
I lit a cigarette and shrugged, the smoke curling up between us. “Let them. She’s not some random groupie leaking our shit to TMZ. Mary’s smart. She gets it.”
Killian gave me that big-brother look. “Milo. You always get like this. You see a shiny new toy and it’s suddenly like your head’s screwed on backwards.”
I took a long drag, letting the smoke burn my lungs before exhaling toward the sky. The afternoon heat pressed down like a wet blanket. “She’s not a toy.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered.
“Stop.” I flicked ash onto the sidewalk. “She quit the club. She’s in my bed. Shit’s good.”
Killian rubbed the back of his neck. “Just… slow down, man.”
I crushed the cigarette under my boot. “It’s not like I’m putting a ring on her finger, dude. Chill.”
He didn’t look convinced, but he dropped it as we reached the cars. Good man.
On the way back, I stopped by the liquor store and picked up a bottle of wine. Figured we could celebrate her leaving the Gilded Lily — but when I got back, the penthouse was quiet.
“Mary?” I called out, kicking the door shut behind me. My voice echoed off the high ceilings. No answer. The kitchen lights were off. The bedroom door was cracked, but the bed was empty. Her pink phone charger was still plugged in by the nightstand.
I checked my phone. No texts. No missed calls. It was almost eight PM.
I told myself she’d probably gone out with Dahlia or Lolly for a celebratory drink. Girls’ night. Fine. I could wait.
Three hours later the wine bottle was empty and I had moved on to the watered-down rum on the shelf — and yet, there was still no sign of Mary.
The dress I had on was far too revealing for my liking, but since Mr. Harlan had paid me ten grand to put it on, I was not complaining. It clung where it shouldn’t and stopped inches before it should have — to add, the fabric was so thin I couldn’t wear anything underneath but a flimsy thong that hardly passed for underwear.
Mr. Harlan was my oldest patron who had, indeed, found me through OnlyFans, but he had never requested anything custom or treated me in a way that would suggest he was interested in me in the slightest — which was an odd combination, but I didn’t think too much of it. He said he was an admirer of my work, that my body was art, which was why he was the only man (apart from Cross) whom I had been brave enough to meet outside OnlyFans.
He was in town for some oil tycoon thing and had wanted me to accompany him to dinner — nothing sexual, just company. It had been a no-brainer.
I had left a note on the kitchen island telling Milo I had some errands to run, which wasn’t necessarily a lie.
The black town car dropped me off at the building a little after ten. My feet were killing me, but the stack of crisp hundreds in my clutch made it worth it. Harlan had been a perfect gentleman — mostly. Just a hand on my lower back when we posed for a couple of photos. I was pretty certain he was gay, which, hey — you do you.
I was still riding the adrenaline high when the elevator doors opened into the penthouse.
Milo was on the couch, legs spread, a glass dangling from his fingers. The bottle of rum on the coffee table was half empty. His eyes lifted to me slowly, taking in the dress, the heels — the everything.
“Where were you?”
I paused in the foyer, setting my clutch on the side table next to a gilded vase of white roses.
“Had errands,” I told him, not missing a beat. “I left you a note.”
He nodded, turning his gaze back to the TV. The glass found its way to his mouth.
The vibe felt off.
I crossed the living room, my heels clicking against the floor before getting muffled by the carpet.
I stopped to stand behind him, leaning forward, and ran my nails across his chest. “Miss me?”
His hand shot up and caught my wrist, grip tight enough to make me suck in a breath. He didn’t look at me.
“Milo—"
