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“I’m here to pour champagne, sir. I’m not on the menu.”

“Everyone’s on the menu for the right price.” He peels ten crisp hundreds off a fold of cash and tucks them under the rim of my tray. “Think about it.”

My stomach turns over. My fingers tighten on the tray until the edge bites into my palm, because the alternative is shoving the whole thing into his goddamn face.

Over the lion’s shoulder, the Big Bad hasn’t moved. Not an inch. But his glass has gone still on the table, and every ounce of that dark, unhurried attention is locked on the lion’s hand on my tray, the way a man watches something he’s already decided to break.

Two guests standing between us find a reason to step aside.

I look at the money.

A thousand dollars is two months of groceries. Half a deposit.

I fold the bills once and tuck them into his breast pocket.

“Keep it,” I say. “I don’t take tips for things I’m not selling.”

I flick my eyes toward the nearest bouncer. The lion follows my glance, recalculates, and wanders off muttering.

When I look back at the alcove, the Big Bad is exactly where he was. One arm along the booth. Glass in his hand.

But his head has turned, just slightly, to follow me, and the candlelight catches the glint of his eyes through the mask. Even from here, I can feel the difference. Not like I’m a body in a dress. Like I’m a problem he didn’t expect, and he’s deciding whether he likes it.

Kelsey catches my eye from across the room and mouths thank you. I point at the bar. Stay near the bouncers. She nods.

I can still feel him. The whole way across the floor, his eyes stay on me, steady as a hand on the back of my neck. I keep my tray level and my face bored, like a woman who hasn’t noticed a thing.

I’ve noticed everything.

I’m halfway back to the service bar when Marco, the floor captain, catches my arm. He’s sweating through his collar, which is new. Marco doesn’t sweat for senators.

Marco once watched a congressman get slapped with a cocktail napkin by his own wife and didn’t even blink.

“Booth one,” he says.

“I’m on the floor.”

“You’re on booth one. He asked for you.” Marco tips his head toward the alcove, toward the Big Bad, without looking at him. Like looking would cost extra.

“He asked for me?”

“He asked for the rabbit.” Marco presses a heavy crystal tumbler into my hand. Two fingers of something amber and old. “Macallan. Neat. Don’t spill it, don’t chat, don’t stare. And for the love of God, Bunny, don’t do the thing with your mouth.”

“What thing?”

“The thing you just did to that lion.”

So I wasn’t imagining it.

He wasn’t glancing. He was watching. Since the service bar. Through the lion. Through every step I’ve taken since.

I give Marco a calm, professional nod and decide not to examine how much I like being watched.

Up close, he’s worse. Darker. Bigger. Stiller. Even the candlelight won’t go near him.

My body clocks how close he is before my brain can file a complaint. My skin goes tight and hot under the silk. My breath goes shallow, and I’m suddenly, painfully aware of exactly how thin this dress is.

This is fine. I’m fine.