Three

“This is the venue?” I glance out the tinted window of Monique’s Maserati, eyeing the sleek yet understated building.

“Yup.” She unfastens her seatbelt with a smirk. “Doesn’t look like it, right?”

“Not at all.”

“The real shit happens at the top.” She tilts her head toward the entrance, unlocking the doors. “Come on.”

I exhale, pushing open my door and stepping out. The night air is crisp against my skin as I shut the door behind me, trying to balance my clutch under my armpit while tugging my dress down slightly.

Tonight, I didn’t want to overdo it. I’m wearing a red corset dress—V-neck, spaghetti straps—paired with matching black heels and a black clutch. Classy. Simple.

Monique, on the other hand, is glistening in dark blue sequins, her strapless mini-dress hugging her figure. She’s effortlessly stunning, her black heels wrapped neatly around her long, toned legs. A matching black bag completes the look, and her braids are twisted into a flawless bun.

Damn, she looks good.

We walk into the lobby side by side, heels clicking against the marble floor as we head to the elevator.

“Are you nervous?” Monique asks as we step inside.

“I’m not.” And that’s the truth.

I’ve been to parties like this before—more than I can count. All thanks to my parents.

“Great.”

I side-eye her. “Are you gonna get drunk?”

“Probably.” She winks.

“Which means you’re planning on getting some tonight.”

Monique grins. “God, you’re smart. You should too.”

I sigh. “Monique, we’ve been over this. I don’t want a man.”

“And I get it. Trust me.”

I arch a brow at her. “You do? That’s a first.”

She rolls her eyes. “I just mean… let loose tonight. No regrets.”

“Please don’t tell me this is like… a sex party.”

She laughs. “It’s not. But you know rich people. They’re capable of anything.”

Before I can respond, the elevator dings, and we step into a well-lit, exclusive space.

It looks like a club, but without the gaudy neon lights and suffocating crowds. The lighting is sophisticated, warm yet dim enough to give it that undeniable air of exclusivity.

No strip poles—so definitely not a strip club.

A bar sits at the far end, sleek and fully stocked, barstools lined up along its marble counter. Scattered couches are occupied by well-dressed men and women, engaged in hushed conversations and unapologetic laughter.

But my eyes immediately land on the stage.

Because standing under the spotlight, singing effortlessly into the mic, is none other than Lora Reign.

The R&B popstar.

She looks better than the last time I saw her. Six years ago, back in Italy. My dad had flown her in for my parents’ wedding anniversary.

I hum, impressed. “This place is lit.”

Monique giggles. “Right?”

I smirk. “You’re such a child.”

She nudges me playfully. “I’m just glad you like it.”

Before I can reply, a sultry voice calls out:

“Monique Palmer.”

We turn.

A woman—tall, blonde, stunning in a red floor-length dress with half her cleavage on display—approaches.

She’s hot. And she knows it.

But there’s something about her that immediately rubs me the wrong way.

“Lenore, hi.”

The two exchange a brief embrace, all smiles. But the way Lenore subtly scans Monique’s outfit, as if assessing her, makes my jaw clench.

“You look stunning,” Lenore purrs. “I’m so glad Margot invited you tonight. I’m sorry I didn’t invite you myself.”

Monique waves a dismissive hand. “It’s okay.”

And then Lenore turns to me.

Her icy blue eyes rake over my dress, my face, my entire existence, trying to place me.

I get it. I don’t belong.

Most of the people here are models, actresses, actors, and powerful business moguls.

I’m none of the above.

Monique, sensing the tension, speaks up. “This is my best friend, Robyn. My plus one.”

Lenore’s lips curve into a polite smile. But it’s fake as hell.

“Right. I’ve heard so much about you.” Her voice is syrupy sweet, but I know a phony when I see one.

“I’m Lenore.”

I keep my expression neutral. “Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

Liar.

Lenore’s smile lingers for a second too long before she waves goodbye and struts off.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, I mutter, “What a phony.”

Monique exhales sharply. “Yeah, I fucking hate that bitch.”

I turn to her. “So what’s her deal?”

Monique rolls her eyes. “You wanna grab a drink first, or should I start the rant now?”

I chuckle. “Let’s grab a drink.”

We walk toward the bar, slipping onto the vacant stools.

“How do you two know each other?” I ask.

Monique sighs, signaling the bartender. “We work for the same company. Shawty thinks we’re in a competition or some shit.”

I raise a brow. “Damn. That must be fun for you.”

“It’s not,” Monique says, accepting her drink. “But I just avoid her and pretend she doesn’t exist. It works well.”

Something tells me tonight is going to be very interesting.

“What are you getting?” I ask Monique, scanning the drink menu.

“A Negroni.”

“Great. I’m going with Sex On The Beach. I can’t remember the last time I got drunk. I’ve been working my ass off.”

“Last week.”

I turn to look at her, brow raised. “What?”

“You said you can’t remember the last time you got drunk. So I said last week. We got drunk last week.”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “You’re a bitch.”

Monique smirks. “And about working your ass off—you need to wind down a little. If you don’t get a spot as a registered nurse at St. José, you can always work somewhere else.”

“It’s not that easy. I mean, it is, but… I love working there.”

“What are you scared of? You’re good. You’re great with the patients, and people love you.”

“You mean the men love me.” I roll my eyes. “The women think I’m a phony. That I do too much.”

“They’re just jealous.” Monique shrugs. “You’re pretty, you’re hardworking, and you’re easily likable. That scares people. So instead of admitting they’re intimidated, they talk shit. Classic.”

I scoff. “So what you’re saying is, I’m a threat?”

Monique grins. “Absolutely. And I love that for you.”

I shake my head, laughing softly. “Where’s the bartender, anyway?”

Monique waves at one of them, catching his attention. A tall guy with sandy blond hair and sharp cheekbones approaches us. His eyes flick to me, lingering for a second too long before he turns to Monique.

“Ready to order?” His voice is smooth, polite, but there’s something undeniably flirtatious about his gaze.

“Yeah. One Negroni and one Sex On The Beach. Thank you,” Monique says.

The bartender nods, glances at me again, then heads off to prepare our drinks.

Monique nudges me. “Did you see that? The bartender was totally eye-fucking you.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“Oh, please. He looked like he wanted to rip your dress off and devour you whole.”

I glare at her. She just giggles.

“I’m not interested. I’m not ‘getting some’ tonight.”

“Your loss.” She scans the room with a smirk. “There are plenty of hot men here. I’ve already seen a few.”

“I wish you luck.”

The bartender returns, placing our drinks in front of us. His eyes find mine again, lingering just a second too long.

I raise a brow. “Is there something on my face?”

He blinks, caught off guard. “What?”

I tilt my head, sipping my drink. “You’ve been staring. A lot.”

He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks tinged pink. “Oh, I—I’m sorry. I just… you look really beautiful.”

I arch a brow, amused. “Thanks.” I pull out my credit card and hand it to him. “For our drinks.”

His lips part slightly, as if disappointed, but he nods. “Sure.” He takes the card and walks off.

Monique hums knowingly. “You just hurt his feelings.”

“Well, fuck you very much.” I smirk, making her chuckle.

A moment later, she downs her drink and stands up. “I’ll be right back—I just spotted someone.”

I watch as she heads toward a man and a woman, both engaged in what looks like a friendly chat, but I can tell—the guy is definitely trying to get the woman into his bed.

“Your card, ma’am.”

“Thank you.” I flash him a small smile as I take my card from him.

He nods and walks away.

I roll my eyes, tossing my debit card back into my purse.

Taking a slow sip from my drink, I let my gaze wander across the room filled with the city’s elite—actors, models, socialites, businessmen. A party like this should be fun, should be exciting, but instead, it drags unwanted memories back to the surface.

Memories I’d rather keep buried.

I exhale, turning slightly—

And that’s when I see him.

A familiar face.

A face I didn’t expect to see anytime soon.

My stomach drops, and I nearly choke on my drink.

It can’t be.

I stare harder, trying to convince myself that the universe wouldn’t be cruel enough to throw us into the same room again.

After all, what are the odds?

But as if the universe is flipping me off, he raises his head—and our eyes lock.

Recognition dawns on his face.

Fuck. It’s him.

Just when I thought I was settling into a normal life, I had to go and hit a rich man’s car, flee the scene, and now run into him at a celebrity’s party.

Aren’t I the luckiest girl in the world?

He doesn’t look away.

Instead, his gaze sharpens, his expression hardens, and he raises an eyebrow like I’m a rebellious child caught sneaking out past curfew.

I break eye contact first, throwing my head back and gulping down the rest of my drink in one go.

I need to get the hell out of here.

“Whoa, slow down there, lady.”

A smooth, masculine voice pulls me from my thoughts.

I set my empty glass down and turn toward the source of the voice.

Omar Kingston.

Hollywood actor. Former hotshot until someone younger and hotter knocked him off his throne.

He’s dressed in a dark blue suit, brown skin glowing under the dim lights. I’ll admit—he looks better in real life.

And judging by the flirtatious smile he flashes me, I already know how this conversation is going to go.

Omar extends a hand toward me. “I’m Omar. Now, who might you be, beautiful lady?”

I glance at his hand and don’t take it.

His smirk falters for a fraction of a second before he pulls his hand away, clearly disappointed.

“I’m Robyn.”

“Robyn.” He tests my name on his tongue, smirking. “Rare but unique. You look stunning, Robyn.” His gaze slowly drags down my body.

I fucking hate that look.

It’s not admiration.

It’s possession.

It’s a silent declaration that he doesn’t care about me—just what I can offer him.

What an asshole.

“What do you want?” I ask bluntly.

Omar raises an eyebrow, looking slightly offended.

“Um… I don’t think you know who I am.”

“Omar Kingston,” I say flatly. “Hollywood’s hotshot—past tense. Heard you got yourself a Bentley. You wouldn’t shut up about it on social media. I know you, Omar.” I meet his gaze, deadpan. “I’m just not interested.”

His jaw tightens.

“You don’t have to be a fucking bitch, you know that?” He leans in slightly, voice dropping. “You should feel lucky I’m even talking to you.”

I snort. “Yeah, because you’re a god, and I’m just a nobody.” My voice drips with sarcasm.

I lean in, voice lower. “Kindly fuck off, Mr. Hotshot.”

His nostrils flare. His lips press into a thin line.

I turn my head back toward the crowd—but he’s gone.

The man whose car I hit.

I scan the room, pulse spiking, but there’s no sign of him.

Was I imagining things?

Omar’s voice yanks me back. “You’re gonna regret this.”

I turn to see him standing stiffly, shooting me a glare as he buttons his suit jacket.

Then, he storms off, ego clearly bruised.

I smirk, rolling my eyes, but as soon as I glance toward the bar, I catch the bartender from earlier staring at me.

The second our eyes meet, he quickly pretends to clean a cocktail glass.

I exhale, shaking my head. I need fresh air.

I push off my seat, preparing to make a quick escape, but—

The last person I expected to see is standing directly in front of me.

Towering over me.

Hands in his pockets.

Ocean-blue eyes locked onto mine.

Fuck.

“Look who it is,” he muses, voice smooth, controlled—but there’s a strange undertone I can’t quite place.

“The car smasher.”

My heart plummets to my stomach.

He gives me a once-over, slowly dragging his gaze down my body before locking eyes with me again.

I swallow.

Oh, he’s dangerous.

His ocean-blue gaze pierces through me, scrutinizing, calculating—like he’s trying to decipher something about me.

I swallow, suddenly aware of how close we are.

He’s flawless, of course. Black custom-made suit. Black dress shirt. A face sculpted like sin itself.

His golden skin practically glows under the dim lighting. His dark brown hair, slicked back, has a few rebellious strands framing either side of his chiseled face.

He looks expensive.

He looks powerful.

He looks like he owns the goddamn room.

And I hate that my body betrays me by noticing how devastatingly attractive he is.

Right now, standing in front of me, towering over me with that unreadable expression, he looks like a god.

And I hate it.

“You should close your mouth,” he says, voice rich with amusement. “Anything could sneak in at this point.”

I snap my mouth shut, mortified.

I had been staring.

Asshole.

“Leaving so soon?” He removes his hands from his pockets, taking a step closer.

I open my mouth—then close it again.

Worst case scenario? I just have to pay for his car and move on with my life.

“Not really,” I finally say. “Just wanted some fresh air.”

He nods once, studying me. “Enjoying the party?”

I nod. “I am.”

His lips curve slightly. “So she can talk.”

I frown.

“For a second,” he continues, “I thought you were mute.”

He’s so fucking rude—and yet, his baritone voice sends chills down my spine.

I exhale sharply. “Look, I’m sorry. I know I hit your car, but I didn’t mean to run away. I wasn’t looking, and I didn’t mean to hit it.”

His expression doesn’t change. “Twice.”

“…Yeah.” I rub my temple. “I may have failed my driving test.”

A ghost of a smirk plays on his lips. “Right.”

His gaze flickers down my body for a fraction of a second before locking onto my eyes again.

I can’t read that look.

But I know it’s not good.

I hate that my skin burns under his scrutiny.

And I hate that I can’t quite tell if he’s amused, irritated, or just playing some fucking game.

But one thing’s for sure.

This man is going to be a problem.

One glance at him through my driver’s window earlier today told me he’s powerful. That’s why I had to leave as fast as I could.

“I’m guessing you didn’t think we’d meet again.”

True.

“Why did you run?” His voice is steady, too composed. He slips his hands back into his pockets, waiting.

I sigh. “Look, it doesn’t matter. I’ll pay for it. If you want, I can send you the money for the cost—so you’ll understand I’m sincerely sorry.”

He tilts his head slightly, eyes darkening with amusement. “Alright. It’s $25,000 for the damage.”

My stomach drops.

“And an extra 10K for repairs.”

What?

I blink, my brain short-circuiting. “I—”

What the fuck kind of car costs that much to fix?

I stare at him, anger bubbling under my skin. Meanwhile, he looks annoyingly calm, like he’s ordering coffee instead of demanding $35,000 for a goddamn scratch.

He doesn’t even flinch. Not a single ounce of emotion crosses his perfectly sculpted face.

It’s just blank.

“Thirty-five thousand dollars for a scratch?” I nearly yell, but I force my voice to stay level. “Your car wasn’t totaled. It was a scratch—a tiny scratch. And it wasn’t on purpose. There’s no way a scratch costs $35,000.”

He exhales, like he’s indulging me, then steps closer.

Close enough that I feel his presence.

Close enough that I refuse to step back.

I lift my chin, meeting his stare head-on.

His blue eyes are sharp, unyielding.

“You know what?” I exhale, giving up. “Whatever. I don’t have that kind of cash on me right now, but I can do a transfer.”

His lips twitch. “I don’t need your money, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart?

My jaw clenches. “You just told me the cost of repairs.”

“That’s correct.” He nods once, still unreadable. “And I’ve already fixed it.”

I freeze.

“You’re gonna pay for it,” he continues, his voice smooth, measured. “But I don’t need your money.”

My pulse spikes. “Then how am I supposed to—”

He leans in slightly, voice dropping. “Keep it at the back of your mind that you owe me.”

I open my mouth, then shut it again.

I owe him?

Before I can respond, his gaze dips again.

Slow. Calculated.

Like he’s memorizing every inch of me.

I should be annoyed—furious, even—but something about the way he does it…

It’s not sleazy.

It’s not desperate.

It’s deliberate.

Like he’s assessing the damage I just caused to my own life by running into him.

Then, he smirks.

I wasn’t expecting that.

His voice is low, smooth, teasing.

“Nice dress, by the way… Robyn.”

I go completely still.

Then—he winks.

And walks away.

Leaving me standing there like an idiot.

My heart slams against my ribs.

My brain short-circuits.

And the only thought in my head is—

How the fuck does he know my name?