CHAPTER 6: Underestimated

Adeline's POV

The wine glass sweats against my palm. Cold seeps into my fingers, and I tighten my grip as if that will somehow stop my hand from exposing me.

‘Confident. Walk like you belong here.’

I repeat it under my breath, a mantra with no real power behind it. My heels click sharply against the marble, and my spine pulls straight on its own. For one glorious seconds, I almost believe I belong here.

Then my heel catches the edge of a tile seam. My arms fly out. The glass tips, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim, and for one horrifying second my life flashes before me as an obituary. Adeline Carter, twenty-four, taken from this world by a pair of shoes she couldn't afford. At least the dress will look good at the funeral.

My heels regains their hold before gravity finishes the job. I glance around fast, praying nobody saw, and find exactly one person watching.

Albert.

Of course. Because the universe has decided humiliating me in front of him is a personal hobby now.

Heat crawls up my neck. I straighten my spine again, drain half the wine in one go, and set the glass down on the nearest surface without checking whose table it belongs to. Someone will find it. Not my problem right now.

Five men sit near the balcony doors, drinks resting untouched in front of them, the kind of stillness that means they're paying attention to everything but each other. Just great. A whole table of guys who look like they'd know exactly where to hide a body and probably have opinions on thread count.

I pull out the empty chair myself before anyone can offer it and sit like I belong there.

The man closest to me looks up first. Silver cuts through his dark hair at the temples. A thin scar disappears into his left eyebrow. He doesn't smile when he looks at me. He studies me for a second, then glances toward the room behind me. Checking who I came with.

‘The Boss Lord.’ Nicknaming him in my head feels safer than admitting he makes me nervous.

“And who may you be, princesa?” His Italian accent gives the word a lazy edge. “Lost?”

"That sounds flattering." I keep my voice light. "You can call me Adeline."

His mouth moves at one corner. Not quite a smile. “Adeline, then.”

"I've seen you with Rossi," another one cuts in before The Boss Lord finishes deciding whether to be amused. Younger than the rest, restless hands drumming against his glass like his whole body runs on nervous energy. "The companion."

‘Motormouth.’ I can already tell this one's going to talk more than he should.

I hold on to the word companion. It sounds better than woman he hired to stand beside him. Barely.

“A gala like this is for networking.” I lift my chin, borrowing the confidence I used outside with the cameras. “Nobody said networking was reserved for men in three thousand dollar suits.”

Two of them laugh. The Boss Lord tips his glass toward me, something like respect flickering behind his eyes.

The oldest one hasn't looked at me once. Broad, a scar across one knuckle like it survived something sharp. His attention keeps moving instead. Entrance. Balcony. Waiter. Entrance again. Three people have walked through since I sat down. He noticed every one.

‘Human Security Camera.’ I doubt he's going to tell me anything tonight.

The Boss Lord takes a sip of his wine before speaking. "Rossi lets you off the leash tonight?"

Excuse me, I don't remember being a dog.

“He doesn't seem big on leashes.”

A few eyes move between us. Motormouth laughs. “Everyone is big on leashes. Some people simply prefer theirs invisible.”

The fourth one leans back finally giving his attention, watch catching the light every time he moves his wrist.

‘Scottish Ken Doll.’ Given his blonde hair and pretty looks.

“You know what he does. Business, I mean." he says, Scottish accent rolling somewhere casual.

"Companies. Contracts." I feign casualness, my palms damp against the stem of a glass I don't remember picking back up.

"That's not what I asked."

Silence. It presses against my collarbone until I want to fill it with anything.

"Ask him yourself." I smile instead. "I don't do his paperwork."

The Boss Lord's mouth twitches. "She's got a mouth."

Human security Camera finally looks at me. His eyes are darker up close. “She's sitting at our table.” His gaze moves to the Boss Lord. “Uninvited.”

My stomach knots but I keep my spine where it is.

“You looked like you could use better company than the people you were talking business with.”

My pulse is beating hard enough to qualify as a second heartbeat.

I gesture toward the room. “If five men can't handle one woman asking questions, I can find another table.”

I immediately regret it as no one says anything. Then the fifth man laughs. He looks like money that's never had to ask twice.

‘Trust Fund Menance.’ The one who looks the most harmless, which usually means the opposite.

The Boss Lord’s shoulders drop half an inch, some invisible test passed.

"Sit," he says again, and this time it isn't a test. He waves a waiter over without asking what I want, orders another round like the matter's settled.

Motormouth fills my glass without asking, grinning like that's charming. "You're not what I expected," he says.

"What did you expect?"

He shrugs, glancing at the others instead of answering.

The conversation shifts without warning. One second we're discussing galleries and champagne, and the next a name lands on the table with enough weight to change the air. Human Security Camera's fingers stop against his glass.

Scottish Ken Doll lowers his voice. “Antwerp is behind schedule again. Second time this quarter.”

Motormouth glances around the table. “Rossi's people?”

“Does it matter?” The Boss Lord doesn't look up from his drink. “Fix it before Thursday.”

They both nod.

I take a sip of wine and arrange my face into pleasant confusion, the exact expression of a woman who thinks Antwerp is a shoe brand. I understand maybe thirty percent of what they're saying. My brain files all of it anyway.

Trust Fund Menace catches me looking between them. He smiles. “Bored?” He tips his glass toward me. “We can talk about something less tedious.”

“Such as?”

“You.”

“I'm an open book.” I return his smile.

"Doubtful." The Boss Lord, still not looking up. "Nobody who climbs into a stranger's car qualifies as an open book."

My fingers tap against the rim of my glass. "That story's gotten around, has it?"

“Everything travels fast.” His blue eyes holds mine.

“Especially when Rossi is involved.”

There it is again. That feeling that everyone in this city knows more about my life than I do.

“And what exactly have you heard?”

The Boss Lord's mouth curves faintly. “Enough.”

Motormouth breaks the tension without meaning to, leaning in with the loose confidence of someone three drinks past caution. "Marseille's the one that actually cost us. Four months, a shipment, a man we couldn't replace."

Human Security Camera's jaw shifts. A warning nobody says out loud.

"Enough," The Boss Lord says calmly and Motormouth's mouth closes shut.

‘A man we couldn't replace.’ My curiosity climbs out of my body but I keep my mouth shut.

Trust Fund Menace slides a black card across the table. He does it beneath the edge of the conversation, almost hidden from the others.

“If you ever get tired of playing girlfriend,” he says, sliding the card closer, “call me. I pay better.”

As if Albert pays me anything.

The card is completely black, with no company logo or office number, only his name and a small silver emblem I don't recognize. My fingers hover close enough to make it feel like a decision I haven't made yet.

"She's not tired of anything," The Boss Lord mutter, eyes back on his glass. "Are you, princesa?"

"No," My answer comes too quickly.

Human Security Camera's fingers close around the card before mine can, folding it once, pocketing it without asking Trust Fund Menace's permission. Trust Fund Menace's jaw tightens. He says nothing.

"Enough business." The Boss Lord lifts his glass toward me, and the table resets around him. "Tell me something true, Adeline."

My smile fades.

“Something Rossi doesn't know you'd say."

Every man at the table turns toward me. Five sets of eyes. Five very different versions of trouble.

I laugh, buying myself half a second I don't actually have.

A hand lands on my shoulder before I find anything true enough to hand over. Familiar in a way that makes my skin pull tight.

Motormouth stops mid-sentence. Scottish Ken Doll lowers his glass. Trust Fund Menace's hand disappears beneath the table. The Boss Lord's eyes lift past me, and whatever calculation was running behind them disappears.

I don't need to turn around.

"We're leaving."

Two words, and the entire table rearranges itself around them.

Albert holds out his hand. I look at it, then up at him, and set mine into his palm. His fingers close around mine, warm and firm, and he pulls me to my feet without taking his eyes off the table.

"Enjoy the rest of your evening."

Nothing changes in his voice. Somehow, that's the worst part.

The Boss Lord inclines his head. Nobody at that table offers a single word back.

He leads me away, hand still wrapped around mine, and I feel every eye at that table following us until the crowd swallows us whole.

Outside, the air reaches my lungs and I finally breathe properly. My feet ache with every step and I'm yanking one heel off, then the other, dangling them from two fingers by the time we reach the car.

I drop into the leather seat and let my head fall back against it, bare feet curling against the floor mat.

“What did they discuss?”

No hello, no are you all right? Just straight to business.

I recount it. The name that dropped without warning. The port. Antwerp, Thursday, a deadline nobody explained. Marseille, the shipment, the man they couldn't replace.

His jaw works once when I say Marseille.

"And the card?"

"Trust Fund Menace tried to give me." I glance at him sideways. “Human security Camera took it before I did?"

His brows lift. “Who?"

I realize I'm the only one who knows the nicknames. “The pretty blond one and the paranoid

His eyes flick toward me. “You mean Gabriel and Scott.”

"I don't know their names." I shrug. “Scott offered to pay me better than you do."

"You're being paid nothing."

"I'm aware." I look toward the window, watching the city smear past in gold and red. "Which, by the way, still feels like an oversight on your part."

Silence answers that. His jaw stays set.

I mumble it mostly to the glass. "He offered actual money, though. Real currency instead of silence."

"Then you should have accepted."

I turn toward him. “Seriously?”

His eyes stay on the road.

“No.”

I don't answer. I look back out the window instead, glad, in some quiet corner I don't examine too closely, that the card sits in Human Security Camera's pocket instead of mine.

The car stops outside my building. I push the door open myself, heels dangling from my fingers, one foot already on the curb.

"Goodnight," I say, glancing back.

He doesn't say it back. His gray eyes stay on me until the door closes between us, and the car doesn't pull away until I've disappeared through the entrance.

I climb the stairs barefoot, tile biting against my feet, keys fumbling twice before the lock gives.

The apartment door shuts behind me. My bag hits the floor. The heels land somewhere near the couch, wherever gravity decides to put them. The dress slides down and pools at my ankles, leaving nothing behind but the slip.

I fall into bed without turning on a single light.

The night catches up all at once, limbs heavy, eyes refusing to stay open a second longer than they have to.

My phone lights up on the nightstand, screen glowing against the dark, vibrating against the wood.

I don't reach for it.

Sleep pulls me under before I find out who it's from.