In His Sheet

Episode 012

The next few days were a blur of panic and damage control. I managed to dodge Elsie’s lunch plans by claiming Clara had me buried under review files, which wasn't entirely a lie. But I couldn't avoid Elsie forever.

When her text came through on Thursday night, it wasn't a request anymore. It was an address.

“The Vance Estate, 9 PM. Private cocktail lounge. You are coming, Liz, no excuses! Amber is still being a pain, and I need backup.”

I stared at the text, then at my mother, who was finally sleeping peacefully thanks to the medicine my new paycheck had bought. I couldn't back out. If I ignored Elsie, she’d come looking for me at the office. My only option was to go, play the part of Elizabeth Monroe for one more night, and pray word didn't get out, so Clara never finds out.

Joan helped me dress again, lending me a deep emerald-green gown that clung to my curves like a second skin. It looked expensive, really expensive, and entirely out of my league.

"Joan, where did you get this dress? It's... it's stunning," I whispered, staring at my reflection in awe.

She chuckled, coming to stand behind me, "Snagged it from my boss's wardrobe at my house-sitting job."

"Joan!" I spun to face her,

"Please, Miss Diane has a closet full of clothes. She could host the whole New York Fashion Week without running out of options," she said, rolling her eyes. "Now, we don't need you running late, chop chop." Putting my purse in my hand, Joan dragged me to my already waiting cab.

"You know I love you, right? But this was a very foolish idea! What if you got caught?"

"I didn't, so stop worrying and get your ass in there."

I smiled, the previous excitement rushing back, as I hugged my best friend and got into the car. Soon, the cab dropped me off at the Vance Estate, and my jaw dropped. It was a sprawling mansion tucked behind massive iron gates in the richest zip code in the city. Inside, the private lounge was filled with the familiar smell of old money, heavy cologne, and high-end scotch.

"Liz! You made it!" Elsie squealed, rushing over to pull me into a hug before dragging me toward the bar.

For the first hour, I played my part perfectly. I laughed at jokes I didn't care about, sipped champagne that tasted like rent money, and kept my eyes peeled for Clara. Thankfully, my "aunt" wasn't anywhere in sight.

"Elizabeth, dear, you must meet Leonard," Elsie said, nudging me toward a man standing near the grand fireplace.

Leonard Voss.

My internal alarm bells chimed with pure gold. I recognized him instantly from the guest list I’d memorized. He was a real estate mogul, a millionaire who owned half the buildings in this part of town, and a man notorious for his massive wallet and fragile ego. He was older, maybe mid-forties, with sharp suits and an air of absolute entitlement.

Rich but reachable, I reminded myself. This is the target.

When Leonard turned his eyes on me, I didn't flinch. I tilted my head, offering him a slow, enchanting smile. "Mr. Voss," I murmured, extending my hand. "It's a pleasure."

His eyes drifted down my dress, a heavy, unmistakable heat flaring in his gaze. He took my hand, kissing the back of it, his lips lingering a second too long. "The pleasure is entirely mine, Elizabeth. I was beginning to think this party was going to bore me to death."

For the next thirty minutes, I turned on the charm. I listened to him brag about his latest high-rise project, laughed at his dry jokes, and touched his arm lightly, just like I’d watched the women who I served coffee do. Leonard was completely captivated. He hung on my every word, his eyes darkened with an intensity that told me my plan was working perfectly.

I did it, I thought, a rush of triumph flooding my chest. I found my in.

"It's a bit loud in here," Leonard whispered, his breath smelling heavily of bourbon. He leaned in close, his hand settling firmly on the small of my back. "Let's find somewhere quieter to talk. I want to show you the art gallery in the west hall."

"Oh, I shouldn't leave Elsie..." I began, trying to play hard to get.

"Elsie won't mind," he urged, his grip tightening on my waist, practically guiding my steps out of the lounge and into a dimly lit, vaulted hallway.

The further we walked, the quieter it got. The music from the lounge faded into a distant hum. We stopped in a shadowed corner beneath a massive oil painting.

"Now," Leonard smiled, his eyes looking glassy, his movements a little clumsy. He set his empty glass on a ledge and stepped directly into my personal space. "Where did a beautiful girl like you come from?"

"I'm just visiting town, Mr. Voss," I said, suddenly feeling a bit uneasy. His demeanor had shifted. The polished billionaire was gone, replaced by a drunk man who looked used to getting whatever he wanted. "We should probably head back."

I tried to step past him, but Leonard blocked me, pinning me against the cold marble wall.

"Don't be like that, Elizabeth," he slurred, his hands clamping down onto my shoulders. His grip was heavy, brutal. "You've been giving me those looks all night. I know what you want."

"Mr Voss, let go," I said, my voice dropping its sweet facade, turning sharp. I pushed against his chest, but he didn't budge.

"Come on, just a little taste," he growled, shoving his face into my neck. His hands moved down, tearing at the strap of my emerald dress, trying to force his knee between my legs.

Panic flared in my chest. Not again. Not like Tom at the club. I raised my hands to shove his face away, ready to scream, ready to fight—

"Amuse yourselves on your own time. This hallway is for walking, not for forcing your tongue down women's throat Voss."

The voice was like ice cutting through the air.

Leonard froze. I gasped, pushing him away with everything I had left, stumbling back against the wall.

Standing a few feet away, shadowed by the dim light of the corridor, was Adrian Holt.

He stood with his hands tucked into his trousers pockets, his tuxedo jacket immaculate, his posture terrifyingly rigid. Up close, his height was suffocating. He loomed over both of us like an angry god. His steel-grey eyes flicked from Leonard's disheveled suit to me, locking onto my torn dress strap and my flushed, panting chest. A look of deep, burning disgust washed over Adrian’s face.

"Adrian," Leonard stammered, pulling at his collar, his face flushing bright red as the alcohol suddenly seemed to drain from his system. "We were just... having a private conversation."

"Save it, Voss," Adrian said, his voice dangerously quiet, dripping with absolute contempt. He didn't look at Leonard; his freezing gaze was glued entirely to me. "I am well aware of the kind of 'entertainment' you bring to these events. But I suggest you keep your amusements in the bedroom. Some of us are trying to conduct actual business tonight."

My jaw tightened. My chest burned with a mixture of terror and hot, defensive rage. Amusement? Entertainment? He thought I was just some cheap girl throwing herself at a millionaire for a paycheck. He thought I wanted this.

I opened my mouth to speak, to defend myself, but the cold weight of Adrian's glare silenced me. The sheer power rolling off him was enough to choke the words right out of my throat.

Leonard swallowed hard, nodding quickly. "Right. Right. My apologies, Holt. I'll... head back to the lounge." Without looking at me again, Leonard turned on his heel and practically fled down the hallway, completely terrified of the man standing before us.

The hallway fell into a deafening, terrifying silence.

I was alone. With Adrian Holt.

He took a slow step forward, stepping out of the shadows. The light caught the sharp lines of his jaw, his dark hair falling recklessly over his forehead. He looked at me, his eyes traveling slowly from my messy hair down to my bare shoulder where the strap had fallen, before snapping back up to meet my gaze.

"Fix your dress," he murmured, his tone devoid of any emotion except cold arrogance. "And get out of my sight before I have security throw you out into the street where you belong."

He turned to walk away, his leather shoes clicking sharply against the marble floor.

I stood there, trembling, clutching my torn dress to my chest. He didn't know my name. He didn't know I worked for Clara. But he had seen my face, and he already hates me.

And next Friday, I was supposed to present a review directly to him.