Chapter 2- “Come with me.”

ALEXANDER

I'm reading.

The words blur on the page. I've been staring at the same sentence for five minutes. My glass of Old Fashioned sits on the table, the ice long melted, the whiskey watered down. I don't drink it. I never do. I just order it. The routine is the point.

This place is the only place where I can escape the hurricane of my life. Here, I'm just a man with a book and a drink. Anonymous. Invisible.

I glance at my watch. 6:15. Almost time to leave. Back to the cold penthouse. Back to the silence.

"Excuse me?"

A voice cuts through my reading. Female. Young. I don't look up.

"I was wondering—"

I set my book aside. Slowly. I look up.

She's standing there. The waitress from earlier. She's served me a few times. Not today, though. Her shift must have ended.

Brown hair. Messy. Glasses. She's short. Maybe five foot five. Her eyes are brown. Warm. But there's something behind them. Something raw. Something broken.

She looks nervous. Her hands fidget. She's wearing a thin coat. She must be cold. The bar is warm, but she's shivering.

"I'm not really interested in small talk," I say.

She blinks. "It's not small talk. I want to ask you for something."

I raise an eyebrow. The glass in front of me is forgotten. This is unexpected. Not everyday someone walks up to me and says they need something. People want things from me all the time. Money. Connections. Favors. They never say it this directly.

She swallows. Her throat moves. Her fingers fidget with the stem of her glasses. She pushes them up her nose.

She's nervous. Terrified. I can see it in the way she breathes. Shallow. Quick.

I should look away. I should pick up my book and dismiss her. But I don't.

Why don't I?

She's beautiful. I notice it now. The sharpness of her jaw. The curve of her lips. The way her eyes try to hold mine and then dart away. She's a mess. A beautiful, nervous, broken mess.

I reach for my book. My fingers touch the cover.

"I want you to have sex with me."

My hand freezes.

"Tonight. Just one night."

I stare at her.

That's... that's insane. That's the boldest, craziest, sexiest thing anyone has ever said to me.

Why the fuck do I find it sexy?

Her cheeks flush. She takes a breath. "I want you to have sex with me. Tonight. One night. That's all."

I forget the book. I forget the drink. I forget everything.

I lean back in my chair. Study her. She's still fidgeting. Still nervous. But she's not backing down. She's holding my gaze. Barely.

"That's a crazy thing to ask a stranger," I say.

"A lot of crazy things happen on Tuesdays."

I blink. A laugh almost escapes me. Almost. I swallow it.

She's not joking. She's serious. Dead serious.

I look at her. Really look. And I recognize something. Something I don't want to name.

Pain. Loss. The kind of emptiness that makes you do reckless things. The kind of emptiness I know too well.

She's running from something. Just like me.

"Why?" I ask. "Why do you want me to fuck you?"

She doesn't flinch at the word. She holds my eyes.

"Because I want to erase a memory."

I stare at her.

"That's stupid," I say.

Her face falls. A frown creases her brow. She steps back. "Never mind. Forget I said anything."

She turns. She starts to walk away.

I should let her go. I should pick up my book and pretend this never happened. That's the smart thing. The logical thing. The safe thing.

I stand up.

"Wait."

She stops. Turns back.

I pick up my book. I grab my coat.

"Come with me."

Her eyes widen. "What?"

"I said come with me. Unless you've changed your mind."

She stares at me. I stare back.

I don't know why I'm agreeing to this. I don't know why I'm letting a stranger into my life. Into my penthouse. Into my bed.

But I'll do it anyway.

She nods slowly. "Okay."

She follows me out the door.

— — —

MIA

I follow him out of the bar.

The cold hits me again, but this time I barely feel it. My blood is buzzing. My heart is pounding. What the hell am I doing?

Charlotte's voice echoes in my head. Live a little. Feel something.

The whiskey is still warm in my stomach. It's making decisions for me. Decisions I would never make sober. Decisions I might regret tomorrow.

But tomorrow doesn't matter right now.

He leads me to a car. A black Mercedes-Maybach. It's sleek and expensive, the kind of car that costs more than my apartment building. I stop and stare.

Who the fuck did I just ask to fuck me?

He doesn't open my door. Of course he doesn't. I'm not his girlfriend. I'm not anyone. I'm just a girl who asked a stranger to have sex with her. In his eyes, I'm probably a cheap fuck. Easy. Desperate.

Does that make me feel degraded?

Yes.

Does it make me want to change my mind out of self-preservation?

No.

I get in the car. The leather seat is warm. The interior smells like expensive cologne—something dark and woody, maybe Tom Ford Oud Wood. It's the kind of scent that makes you think of power and control.

He gets in on the other side. Doesn't look at me. Starts the engine. The car hums to life.

He drives.

Through the streets of New York. Past Bleecker Street. Down Broadway. The city lights blur past. Taxis honk. People cross without looking. The city is alive, indifferent to the fact that I'm in a stranger's car, about to do something reckless.

He doesn't speak. Neither do I.

I watch the buildings change. The streets get cleaner. The lights get brighter. We're heading uptown. Toward the kind of neighborhoods I only see in movies.

He pulls into an underground parking garage. The space is private. Secure. There are other cars here—a Ferrari, a Lamborghini, a Porsche. I recognize the logos even though I've never been this close to them.

He parks. Exits the car. Doesn't wait for me.

I get out and follow him.

He walks toward an elevator. Private. Keycard access. He steps inside and holds the door. I step in after him.

The doors close.

The ride up is slow torture. The space is small. Too small. I can smell his cologne. I can feel the heat radiating off his body. The silence is deafening.

The light is brighter here. Better than the dim bar. It does justice to his features—the sharp jawline, the high cheekbones, the ice blue eyes that refuse to look at me.

He's beautiful. Stupidly beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes you forget your own name.

I force my gaze away. Down at my shoes. Up at the ceiling. Anywhere but him.

The elevator takes forever. A thousand years pass. Maybe more.

Then the doors open.

We step into a massive living space. Floor to ceiling windows. A view of the city that takes my breath away. The furniture is sleek. Minimalist. Cold. Expensive.

An elderly woman is standing there. She's wearing a simple black dress. Her gray hair is pulled back in a neat bun. She looks at me with confusion, then back at him.

"Prepare my bath," he says. His voice is flat. Emotionless. "And take her to the guest room."

The woman nods. She doesn't ask questions. She just leaves.

He turns to me. His eyes finally meet mine.

"The guest room," he says. "Follow her. I'll join you soon."

He walks in the opposite direction without waiting for a response.

I stand there for a moment, watching him disappear down the hallway. Then I follow the elderly woman.

She leads me past closed doors. The hallway is long. The ceilings are high. Everything is pristine. Cold. Like a showroom.

She stops at the far end and opens a door.

"This is it," she says. Her voice is soft. Kind. "Wait for the master. He'll join you soon."

I step inside.

The room is huge. A massive bed with white sheets. A sitting area with a velvet chaise lounge. A vanity with a mirror framed in gold. Flowers on the nightstand. The view from the window is incredible—the whole city laid out like a glittering carpet.

I try not to look like a peasant. I stand up straight. I compose myself.

The woman pulls out a towel and a toothbrush. Other toiletries—soap, shampoo, lotion. All in expensive bottles. She gestures toward a door.

"You can freshen up," she says. "The bathroom is through there."

I nod. "Thank you."

She leaves.

I stand in the middle of the room, alone. The silence is heavy. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror on the vanity.

I look like a mess. My hair is wild. My lipstick is smeared. My eyes are red from holding back tears that never came.

I might as well freshen up. I don't want to smell like whiskey on a night I so desperately plan to remember.