Page 6

I take the envelope and hurry toward the elevator bank, my heart hammering in my throat.

When the elevator doors slide shut, sealing me into mirrored steel, I close my eyes and lean back against the wall.

This is real. You are doing this.

The elevator chimes. I step into a carpeted corridor so quiet I can hear the soft rustle of my coat against my thighs. Suite 1204 is at the very end of the hall, isolated in its own private alcove.

My hands tremble as I press the black keycard against the sensor. A soft beep sounds, followed by the heavy click of the deadbolt sliding back.

I slip inside and lock the door behind me.

The suite is breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the illuminated city skyline. The interior is finished in slate gray, warm walnut, and velvet upholstery, anchored by a massive king-sized bed covered in crisp white linens and faux-fur throws. A bottle of champagne sits untouched on the credenza beside two crystal flutes.

The digital clock on the nightstand reads 8:48 PM.

Twelve minutes.

I walk into the bathroom, unbutton my wool coat, and hang it on the back of the door.

I stare at myself in the mirror.

Beneath the coat, I'm wearing a forest-green wrap dress made of heavy silk. It clings to my frame without mercy, dipping low at the neckline, cinching at my waist, and draping over the wide flare of my hips and thighs.

For a second, the old shame flares. I picture Brock Rhodes standing in my classroom yesterday—tall, perfectly chiseled, radiating sharp perfection. What business do I have thinking I could exist in a room with a man who calls himself Vanguard?

I shake my head, gripping the edges of the vanity.

"Stop it," I whisper aloud. "He isn't Brock. Brock is never going to look at you."

That's the whole point of tonight.

Tonight is an exorcism. I'm going to take all the pent-up, forbidden longing I've harbored for a man who is completely off-limits and burn it out of my system with an anonymous stranger. One night where I don't have to be Ms. Hartley. One night where I can let go.

I open my handbag and pull out my mask.

It's a delicate, scalloped half-mask made of stiff black lace, designed to cover my forehead, the bridge of my nose, and the upper curves of my cheeks while leaving my lips, chin, and throat exposed.

I tie the black satin ribbons securely at the back of my head.

I look at my reflection.

My brown eyes stare back at me through the intricate cutouts, darkened and dilated. My mouth looks plush and exposed beneath the dark border. With the mask on, I'm not the quiet schoolteacher anymore. I'm Ivy. A woman who is allowed to want.

I smooth the silk over my hips, take a long breath, and walk back into the suite.

The clock changes from 8:59 to 9:00.

Three seconds later, three heavy, measured knocks sound against the door.

Rap. Rap. Rap.

I freeze. My pulse thunders in my ears.

I cross the rug, unlock the latch, and pull the door open.

The man standing on the threshold steals the breath from my lungs.

He's tall—easily over six feet—with broad shoulders beneath a dark, tailored overcoat. He wears a crisp black button-down shirt, and over the top half of his face, a sculpted black leather mask with clean, severe angles. The mask's interior is shadowed enough that I can't make out the exact color or shape of his eyes, only the intensity of his gaze as it settles on me.