I strolled into the restaurant like I were it's boss.
Chin up, steps slow, hips swaying—not too much, but just enough to be seen. That was the trick with the femme fatale act. You didn’t rush. You let the room adjust to you.
And adjust they did.
A few heads turned. The hostess did a quick double take. Curious glances brushed over me—some intrigued, some impressed, some undoubtedly judging.
I didn’t care.
Because tonight, I wasn’t Harper Adams.
I was Riley Bennett, socialite and professional heartbreaker.
At least, that was the illusion I needed to sell.
Inside? I was spiraling.
My heart felt like it was doing back-flips in my chest. My stomach was knotted so tight I thought i would pass out any second now. Every instinct screamed at me to turn around, fake an emergency, do anythin
