Dirty Little Rich Girl

Chapter 2 — The Man in the Shadows

I don't sleep.

Tessa's couch is lumpy. Her boyfriend Mark snores. The air conditioner wheezes like it's dying. And every time I close my eyes, I see gray. Watching me from the dark.

I turn over. Punch the pillow. Stare at the ceiling.

Who is he?

I pull out the note. Read it again. Welcome home. Elegant handwriting. Sharp. Masculine. Black ink on cream paper.

I should be thinking about the money. A thousand dollars tucked into my bag — the first money I've ever earned in my life. I should be thinking about rent. About food. About what comes next.

Instead I'm thinking about a man I saw for ten seconds in a dark room.

Pathetic, Blake.

* * *

I get to Velvet at 8:45 the next night. Fifteen minutes early. I tell myself it's professional. I know it's because I want to see him.

Nico is at the door. He nods. "Kade."

"Nico."

I change. Black dress. Hair up. Choker. The girl in the mirror looks different than she did last night. Harder. Hungrier.

The night crawls past in coats and names and smiles.

He doesn't come.

Ten o'clock. I check the shadows. Nothing.

Eleven. Empty.

Midnight. I'm trying not to care. I'm failing.

He's not coming. It was a one-time thing. He was looking at the new girl the way everyone looks at the new girl. It doesn't mean anything.

At 12:30, I'm wiping down the hostess stand when Nico appears beside me.

"You're looking for someone."

Not a question.

"I'm not looking for anyone."

He raises an eyebrow. "The gray-eyed man. Last night. In the shadows."

I hesitate. "He was looking at me."

"He looks at a lot of people."

"Who is he?"

Nico's face goes blank. "He's no one you need to worry about."

"He had a note put in my envelope."

"He does what he wants."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're going to get." He starts to walk away, then stops. "One piece of advice. Don't go looking for things you're not ready to find."

He disappears through the velvet curtain.

What the hell does that mean?

* * *

The next hour is slow. Members drift in. Members leave. I stand at my post, checking names, taking coats, smiling at people who look through me like I'm furniture.

At 1:15, I feel it.

A shift. A change in the pressure. Like someone opened a door somewhere and let something in.

I look up.

He's there. Same place as last night. The shadows near the back hallway. Standing perfectly still. Hands in his pockets. Watching me.

This time, I can see his face.

Dark hair, swept back. A jaw sharp enough to cut glass. A mouth that looks like it's never had to ask for anything twice. And those eyes. Gray. Piercing. Focused entirely on me.

Dark suit. No tie. Top button undone. He looks like he walked out of a boardroom five minutes ago. Or a bedroom.

I can't look away.

He holds my gaze. Then he moves.

He walks toward me — deliberate steps, no rush, no hesitation. He moves like someone who's never been told no.

He stops close. Too close. I can smell him — cedar and something sharper underneath. Expensive. Dangerous.

He's tall. Six-three, maybe. I have to look up to meet his eyes. Up close, the gray is flecked with silver. Like chips of ice in a dark river.

"You're new."

His voice is low. Deep. The kind of voice that doesn't need volume to be heard. It settles somewhere in my chest and stays there.

"I'm the hostess." My voice sounds thin.

"I know what you are." He tilts his head, studying me. "I want to know who you are."

My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it. "Blake."

"Blake." He says it like he's tasting it. "Just Blake?"

"Just Blake."

One corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smile. A challenge. "I don't believe you."

"That's not my problem."

The corner lifts a fraction more. "You have a temper."

"You have a staring problem."

He's quiet. The air between us crackles. The music is a low thrum. The fireplace pops. People talk and laugh around us, but it all sounds far away, like I'm underwater.

"What do you want, Blake?"

The question catches me off guard. "What?"

"What do you want?" He asks it like it's the most natural question in the world. "The job? The money? The escape?"

I open my mouth. Close it.

What do I want? I don't even know who I am anymore.

"I don't know."

He watches me. Those gray eyes don't miss anything — the way I'm standing, my hands, my breathing. Filing away every detail.

"That's honest." He says it like it surprises him. "Most people lie."

"What would I lie about?"

"What you want. What you're doing here. Who you are." He takes a step closer. The space between us disappears. I can feel the heat coming off him. "Everyone at Velvet is hiding something. The question is whether you know what you're hiding from."

I should step back. I should say something clever. I should do anything other than stand here frozen while this man looks at me like he's reading every secret I have.

"I'm not hiding from anything."

"Liar." Soft. Gentle. Almost kind. "You're drowning, and you found a place to breathe. That's not hiding. That's survival."

Something in my chest cracks. "Who are you?"

"That's not the right question."

"Then what is?"

He leans in. His mouth is close to my ear. His breath is warm on my skin, and I feel it everywhere — down my spine, through my stomach, into places I don't want to name.

"The right question is what you're willing to risk to get what you want."

He pulls back. Looks at me one more time. Those gray eyes hold mine, and I feel like I'm falling into them, into somewhere I can't see the bottom of.

"Find me when you know what that is."

He turns and walks away. Not toward the front door. To the back of the room, past the booths, past the fireplace. To a wall that looks like solid brick.

He pushes. A section swings open.

A hidden door.

He steps through. The door closes behind him without a sound.

I stand there, frozen, my heart hammering, my skin still burning where his breath touched it.

* * *

Nico finds me five minutes later. I haven't moved.

"You talked to him."

I turn. His face is unreadable. "He talked to me."

"That's not supposed to happen."

"Then why did it?"

Nico looks toward the hidden door. Then back at me. Something shifts in his expression. Wariness. Maybe respect.

"That was Alexander Cross."

The name hits me like cold water.

Alexander Cross. CEO of Cross Capital. Net worth somewhere north of six billion. My father's biggest competitor. The man who's been trying to swallow Kade Industries whole for five years.

I've seen his picture in the Wall Street Journal. Read about his deals in Bloomberg. Heard my father curse his name over dinner, knuckles white around a wine glass.

Alexander Cross owns Velvet. Alexander Cross watched me from the shadows. Alexander Cross stood close enough that I could feel the heat from his skin.

"He never talks to staff," Nico says quietly. "Ever. I've been here four years. He's never said a word to anyone who works the floor."

I look at the hidden door. The blank wall. The place where he disappeared.

"Why did he talk to me?"

Nico's mouth presses into a thin line. "I don't know."

He walks away, leaving me alone in the middle of the room. I stand there, a thousand dollars in my bag and a stranger's name on my lips, and I realize something that scares me more than being broke, more than being homeless, more than my father's voicemail.

I want to know what I'm willing to risk.

And I want him to show me.