4. The Show's Not Over

I stared at the black dress. Since when did ushering jobs involve designer dresses and cars?

"It's Elvis," I said to curious Maya who was already circling the box.

"The supervisor's hitting on you? Eww, I thought he was a married man."

"Ugh, Maya…" I huffed, lifting the fabric gently. I couldn't help but revel in the softness of the silk. Suspicious, I called Elvis back.

"Yeah?" His voice sounded rushed and distracted.

"What is this dress?"

"The text said high profile, didn't it? They provided outfits for all staff. Very fancy place."

"And the car?"

"Picking up all the workers. It saves from parking issues." I heard a little crash in the background. "Gotta run. Wear heels and not flats, okay? Bye!"

The call ended abruptly.

"So?" Maya perched on our coffee table.

"Apparently it is for a high-profile gig."

She clapped her hands together.

"Oh my god, please go! The pay must be really good. You need the money, and I need you to take me to that new club I told you about. The one with the hanging gardens and that DJ from Berlin."

"Slow down." I rolled my eyes. "I don't even know how much this pays yet."

"But you're going, right?" She held the dress against me, her eyes sparkling. "Girl, you'll look like a straight-up goddess in this."

"Fine. But if I end up serving caviar to some pervy billionaire all night, you're buying me breakfast tomorrow."

Maya grinned. "Deal. Now let's get your makeup right. If you're working a fancy event, you gotta look the part."

Six hours later, I was staring at myself in our bathroom mirror, barely recognizing the beauty looking back at me.

This dress was made for me. Open back, synched waist catching my curve with tiny sequin details falling just a few inches below my bum.

I opted for three-inch heels since ushering jobs involved hours of walking around. My hair was pinned up in a sleek ponytail, while a few curls framed my face.

"You look incredible," Maya said from the doorway. "Like, belongs-on-a-magazine incredible."

I felt a little ridiculous as I fidgeted with my simple silver stud earrings, the only jewelry I owned that didn't look cheap. "What kind of gig required this level of dressing?"

My phone buzzed with a text. The car had arrived.

"Text me if anything weird happened."

"Define weird."

"You know what I mean." She squeezed my arm. "Be safe. And try to have fun!"

The car waiting outside was black and sleek with tinted windows. The driver opened the door with a slight bow. I slid into the backseat, expecting to see other staff members already inside, but it was empty.

"Are we picking up other workers?" I asked as we pulled away.

"No, Miss Sterling. Just you."

That was the first red flag. The second came when I realized we were heading toward downtown Manhattan, not Brooklyn where most of my gigs usually happened.

The third was when the driver didn't take the service road but pulled right up to the glittering front entrance of a grand hotel I recognized as the Onyx Mirage.

Cameras flashed outside as a few socialites I recognized, stepped out of their cars. This was clearly some major event.

"There must be a mistake," I said, panicking as the car stopped. "I'm staff. I should be going through the service entrance."

The driver was unmoved. "These were my instructions, Miss Sterling."

Before I could protest further, my door opened from the outside. A hand appeared, offering to help me out.

Seconds later, I was on the red carpet with camera flashes exploding around me.

"Camila! Over here!"

"Camila, why didn't you arrive with Lucien?"

"How do you feel about making such scandalous accusations against Hayes?"

Accusations? I wanted to confront that reporter, but the hand at my elbow guided me forward, through the doors and into an enormous ballroom glittering with chandeliers and wealth. People in tuxedos and expensive gowns mingled, laughing, drinking champagne.

I scanned for other ushers, for any sign of Elvis, but there was nothing. No staff in matching black dress. The servers passing trays wore crisp white uniforms with an embroidered hotel logo. Everything was already perfectly set up—tables, drinks, the stage where an auction seemed to be preparing.

This was no job. I'd been... set up?

My hands trembled as I reached for my phone, pulling it from my small handbag that screamed "didn't belong here." A text from Maya popped up: "You wouldn't believe what I saw online!!!"

I dismissed it. Whatever celebrity gossip she was obsessing over could wait. I had to call Elvis first.

It picked up at the second ring, but the voice that answered wasn't Elvis's.

"Elvis won't be here tonight."

The voice carried a deep rumble, the vibration sending chills down my spine. I knew that voice. I'd heard it from videos online, in my nightmares, and most recently, in the cafeteria.

I felt a presence behind me, and my blood ran cold.

I already knew who I would find behind me, but before I could turn, he was right beside me. His large hand landed close to where the open back of my dress ended.

The light pressure of his fingers against my bare skin sent another chill up my spine. My heart pounded like it needed to escape from its cage.

What was he doing next to me?

His cologne wrapped around me, a smell that reminded me of fresh lavender this time. My hands went numb, fingers tingling with the urge to either slap him or grab something for support.

I wasn't sure which.

I looked up at him, so close to his chest I could see the flawless stitching on his tuxedo lapel, but he was staring straight ahead at the ballroom.

From that angle, I took in the sharp line of his jaw, the perfect side profile, the neatly trimmed beard, the curve of his ear. He was beautiful in that cold, dangerous way that expensive things often were.

That's when he looked at me, golden eyes catching mine with an intensity that made me forget to breathe.

There was a tiny lift at the corner of his mouth.

This couldn't be real. Surely I am not standing here, in this dress, with Lucien Hayes's hand on my back.

Lucien raised his hand to my cheek, the pad of his thumb caressing my skin with a gentleness you wouldn't expect from someone like him. The contrast between that softness and the hardness in his eyes snapped me back to my senses... partially.

"What are you doing?" I managed.

"You didn't think I'd let our little show end in a cafeteria, did you?" His voice was low, hand sliding down from my back to my waist. "We'd only just begun."

Before I could process a reply, he pulled me to his chest, the rich fabric of his suit cool against my skin. He was so tall, I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. He leaned in, slowly nuzzling closer until his breath warmed my nose tip.

The next thing I felt was his lips on mine.

His lips on mine!

Lucien Hayes was kissing me!

The cameras flashed more intensely around us, and I stood there, trying to remember how to function. I should have pushed him away, kneed his balls, done anything but stand there like a statue while he played out whatever game this was.

But my body wasn't listening to my brain. My hands remained at my sides, my lips neither responding nor retreating.

I was caught in some bizarre limbo where all I could think was: the man I am supposed to destroy, the man who ruined my life, was kissing me in front of half of New York's elite.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes had darkened to a caramel shade. His thumb wiped my lower lip, and I flinched at the gesture.

"Smile for the cameras, Miss Sterling," his voice was surprisingly steady despite what had just happened. "You will finish what you started..."