Chapter 1

Emery's POV

"Is Alaric Ford still lodged here?"

My voice barely comes out steady. The receptionist looks up from her screen, and I press my fingers tighter around the cash folded inside my bag. I've brought enough to bribe my way past security if I have to.

She types something, then glances at me and smiles like she already understands everything.

"Yes, he is." She slides a keycard across the counter. "Mr. Ford mentioned his guest would be arriving soon. Room 402. Fourth floor, room on your right."

I blink at her.

No ID. No questions. No second look at the black dress I've borrowed from my friend.

I pick up the card slowly. Alaric Ford, the man who cancels dates because he has responsibilities, the man who once left a party early because the music was too loud, has told the front desk he is expecting a woman tonight.

That doesn't sound like him.

Then again, maybe I never really knew him the way I thought I did.

I thank her and walk toward the elevators before my legs can change their mind for me.

The doors close. I catch my reflection in the metal panel, pale and wide eyed, and almost laugh. Emery Collins, standing in a five star hotel lobby, one keycard away from doing something she can never take back.

I reach into my bag and pull out the silver mask, large enough to cover my face. I turn it over twice while the numbers climb.

This is insane.

It is my birthday. My nineteenth birthday. The night I've spent years secretly imagining, even though I've never admitted it to anyone.

I've loved Alaric since I was fourteen. Five years of stolen glances across dinner tables, of memorizing the sound of his voice, of letting my heart race every time he ruffles my hair and calls me kid.

Five years of growing up right in front of him, quietly waiting for the day he'll finally stop seeing me as a child.

But to him, I've always been one thing.

His best friend's little sister.

Nothing more.

Tonight, I just want to know what it feels like to be something else to him. Just once. Then I'll let it go and move on with my life like a normal person.

But he can never find out it is me. If he knows, he will shut the door so fast I won't even get a word out.

The elevator dings. I slide the mask over my face and step out.

The hallway is quiet, thick carpet swallowing my footsteps as I walk toward the end of the corridor. Room 402. I stand in front of the door for a second, my hand hovering over it.

Turn around, a small voice says.

I knock instead.

Nothing happens right away. Then a voice comes from somewhere inside, low and rough, nothing like the voice I know.

"It's open. Come in."

I hesitate for a few seconds, my heart thudding loudly before I eventually push the door and step into the dark.

The smell hit me first. Whiskey, strong and sharp, and under it, his cologne. Cedarwood. I'd know it anywhere after five years of hugs that last a few seconds too long.

But something is wrong. Alaric doesn't drink like this. He barely drinks at all. Why is he like this?

I take a step further inside, letting my eyes adjust. The curtains are shut tight, blocking out the city lights, and I can just make out his shape near the window.

Before I get the chance to say anything, he crosses the distance between us and catches me by the wrist. He pulls me toward him, and I stumble back against his solid chest. A gasp escapes me, my whole body going stiff.

He leans down, his breath warm against my ear, his words slurring just slightly.

"Took you long enough. The agency said twenty minutes."

The words don't make sense at first. Then they do.

The agency. He thinks I'm someone he's paid for. The guest he told the receptionist he was expecting.

My stomach drops. For a second, I want to rip the mask off and tell him it’s me, that this is a mistake. But his hands are already moving, dragging over my hips with a desperate pressure, like he doesn't care who is in front of him, as long as he isn't alone with his thoughts.

And some reckless part of me, the part that has loved him for five years, stays very quiet as his hand works.

His hands are rougher than I’ve imagined, his fingers dig into my hips as he spins me around. Alaric doesn’t look at me like a man who wants connection. He looks like a man trying to forget.

"No names. No fucking talking," he growls, his voice thick and slurred.

When I instinctively lean up toward his mouth, craving the kiss I’ve dreamed about for five years, he turns his head sharply. His palm presses against my collarbone, pushing me back firmly. The warning is clear— don’t.

It stings, but I stay silent. This is what I’ve come for.

~~~~

When it's over, he collapses onto the bed beside me without pulling me close. No aftercare. Just heavy breathing and the distant clink of a glass as he reaches for more whiskey.

I lie there trembling, mask still hiding my face, my heart shattered and full at the same time.

The silence stretches long enough that I think he's fallen asleep. Then the mattress shifts.

I hear the click of his wallet before I understand what is happening.

"Here."

Something hits the sheets near my hip. I turn my head just enough to see the bills scattered across the mattress, a few of them touching my bare skin, and something in my chest cracks wide open.

"That should cover it," he says, his voice flat now, none of the roughness from before, none of the need. Just a man settling a transaction. "Tell the agency I said thanks."

I don't move. I can't. My throat has closed up so tight I can't speak even if I want to, and the mask suddenly feels suffocating, glued to my skin, sealing me inside a version of tonight I haven't let myself imagine.

"You can go now." He isn't even looking at me anymore. He's already turned toward the window, glass in hand, like I've stopped existing the moment he was finished. "I've got an early morning.”

I sit up slowly, every part of my body aching in ways I can't yet put into words. My hands tremble as I reach for my dress, and every second I spend struggling with the zipper feels like an eternity. I keep expecting him to turn around, to finally see me— really see me. But I don't know anymore whether I want that or whether it will hurt even more than everything that has already happened.

He never turns around.

I stare at the money for a long moment before forcing myself to pick it up. Leaving it there feels too revealing, like admitting something I'm not ready to face. I curl my fingers around the bills until the edges dig into my palm.

Without a word, I walk out.

The hallway is just as quiet as it was an hour ago, the thick carpet swallowing my footsteps. But I don't feel the same anymore. I make it three doors down before my legs give out. I catch myself against the wall, pressing my palm against the cool paint as I drag in a shaky breath.

He's thrown money at me.

Five years of loving him. Five years of turning him into someone larger than life in my mind. And in the end, he's tossed cash at my hip without even bothering to look me in the face.

I don't cry until I am alone in the elevator, staring at my reflection in the brass panel, my mask still in place and mascara already smudged beneath my eyes.

By the time I step into the lobby, I've wiped my face so many times that my skin feels raw. I keep my head down all the way to the cab line, terrified that if anyone looks at me too closely, they'll see what has happened— and how much of myself I've left behind in that room.

I spend the entire ride home in the back of the cab, staring out the window as the city lights blur past. I try to steady my breathing, but all I can think about are the last five years I've spent loving a man who has looked at me and seen nothing but a stranger he's paid for.

By the time I get home, I think I've managed to pull myself together. Then I walk through the front door and see my brother, Finn, sitting on the couch.

My whole body goes cold again.

"Where were you?"