FOUR

JANE

"Am I that handsome, Miss Jailbird?" His voice was smooth, amused.

I forced myself to move. To breathe. I pulled away from his grip and straightened up, trying to salvage whatever dignity I had left. My mind was racing. Did he recognize me? Could he see past the mask?

"Just surprised me," I managed. My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Usually people announce themselves before grabbing."

"You were falling." He leaned back again, completely relaxed. "I was being a gentleman."

Gentleman. Right. The word tasted wrong in my mouth.

I needed to get control of this situation. I was Jailbird right now, not Jane. He didn't know. He couldn't know. The mask covered enough of my face. The lighting was low. I looked completely different in this costume compared to my usual jeans and hoodies.

I sat down on the opposite end of the couch, crossing my legs. The movement was automatic, something I'd practiced. Look confident. Look unattainable. Make them work for your attention.

"So," I said, letting my voice drop into the sultry register I used for clients. "Birthday boy wants a private session?"

He watched me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve. "Something like that."

The way he said it made my skin prickle. There was recognition in his eyes, but not the kind I feared. He was looking at me like he'd never seen me before, like I was someone new and interesting.

"You requested me specifically." I tilted my head. "Have we met before?"

"No." He said it with certainty. "I would've remembered."

Relief flooded through me. He didn't know. Thank god, he didn't know.

"Then how'd you know to ask for Jailbird?"

"Friend's recommendation." He picked up his drink from the table. Whiskey, neat. "Said you were the best conversationalist here. That you actually listen instead of just nodding."

"Your friend comes here often?"

"Often enough." He took a sip. "He said you made him feel heard. That's rare."

I processed that. A friend. Someone who'd been here before, who'd requested me before or sat with me during group rotations. The investment banker maybe? I'd listened to him drone on for hours last night. Who knew how far the Monroe contact and network went.

"Well, your friend has good taste." I relaxed slightly into the couch. This was just another client. Just another rich boy with daddy's money looking for attention. I could do this. "What brings you to Fantasy Island on your birthday? Don't you have a party somewhere?"

"Had one earlier. Got boring." He swirled his drink. "Everyone there knew me. Knew my father. They were celebrating the Monroe name, not me."

There was something bitter in his voice. I filed that away.

"And here nobody knows you?"

"Exactly." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Here I'm just another guy with money. No expectations. No legacy. No politics."

I studied him. He looked different here, in this lighting, without the usual crowd of fraternity brothers and legacy students surrounding him. Younger somehow. Less polished. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his hair slightly messy like he'd been running his hands through it.

"Must be exhausting," I said. "Living up to a name."

"You have no idea." He set his drink down. "Everyone wants something. Everyone has an angle. My father's constituents, my classmates, even the professors. They see Monroe before they see me."

"But not here."

"Not here." He looked at me directly. "Here I'm nobody. And you're Jailbird. Neither of us has to be real."

The irony wasn't lost on me. He had no idea how close to real this was. That the girl sitting across from him shared a class with him. That she'd humiliated him freshman year and he'd made it his mission to destroy her ever since.

I should've felt triumphant. Powerful. Here was Ace Monroe, stripped of his armor, paying for my time and attention. Here I had the control.

But instead I felt exposed. Vulnerable. Like the curtain between my two lives was thinner than I'd thought.

"So what do you want to talk about?" I asked. "Since this is your escape from reality."

"Tell me about you first." He leaned forward slightly. "Why Jailbird?"

"Why not?"

"It's specific. Evocative. There's a story there."

I laughed, but it came out hollow. "Maybe I just like birds."

"Maybe." He didn't look convinced. "Or maybe you feel trapped. Caged. And this is how you fly."

The accuracy of that statement knocked the air from my lungs. I stared at him, really looked at him, and saw something I hadn't expected. Intelligence. Perception. Not just the arrogant rich boy I'd built up in my head.

"Psychoanalysis costs extra," I said, deflecting.

He smiled. A real smile this time. "Fair enough."

The music outside changed. Something slower, more sensual. I could hear laughter from other booths, the clink of glasses, the low murmur of conversation.

"You know what's funny?" he said. "I have this classmate. Girl in one of my political science courses. She hates me."

My heart stopped.

"Yeah?" I kept my voice neutral. "Why's that?"

"Because I'm an asshole." He said it matter-of-factly. "I was drunk, showed up late to a group project, tried to throw money at the problem. She didn't let me get away with it."

I couldn't breathe. He was talking about me. About freshman year.

"She sounds smart," I managed.

"She is. Brilliant actually. Scholarship student, works her ass off, doesn't take shit from anyone." He picked up his drink again. "I've been making her life hell ever since."

"Why?"

The question came out before I could stop it. Too personal. Too invested.

He was quiet for a moment, staring into his glass. "Because she saw through me. Saw past the name and the money and called me out on my bullshit. Nobody does that."

"So you punish her for it?"

"I guess." He looked up at me. "Sounds petty when you say it like that."

"It is petty."

He laughed. Actually laughed. "You don't pull punches, do you?"

"You're paying for honesty. That's what you get."

We sat there in silence for a moment. The weight of his confession hung between us. He had no idea he was talking to her. To me. The girl he'd been tormenting for two years.

"Maybe you should apologize," I said quietly.

"Maybe." He finished his drink. "But I don't think she'd believe me."

"Try anyway. You might be surprised."

He studied me again, that same intense look from before. "You're different from what I expected."

"How so?"

"Smarter. More direct. I thought this would be all surface level. Pretty girl, pretty words, no substance."

"Disappointed?"

"Opposite actually." He stood up, pulling out his wallet. "This was worth it."

He placed five hundred-dollar bills on the table. Way more than the booth rate.

"That's too much," I said automatically.

"Then do something to pay it off."