Chapter 7

I should have left after the third martini.

Should have grabbed Maya’s hand, walked out of The Vault, and gone back to the safety of her apartment where I could pretend Alexander Lockwood was just another strange encounter in a city full of them.

But I didn’t.

Because twenty minutes after he walked away, a server appeared at our table with two fresh martinis we hadn’t ordered.

“From Mr. Lockwood,” she said, setting them down. “He’s in the private booth in the back corner. He’d like to know if you’d join him for a conversation.”

Maya’s eyes went wide. “Are you kidding me?”

“Should I tell him no?” the server asked.

I looked at the martini. At Maya’s concerned face. At the choice in front of me.

Safe or dangerous.

Hidden or seen.

“Tell him yes,” I said.

“Diana—”

“I know. I know this is insane. But Maya, I need to know what he wants. Why he approached me. Why he said those things.” I grabbed my clutch. “If I’m not back in thirty minutes, come find me.”

“Fifteen minutes. And I’m timing you.”

I followed the server through the crowd, weaving between bodies and conversations, until we reached a secluded area in the back. The booth was tucked behind a velvet curtain, private enough to be intimate without being completely hidden.

Xander sat alone, his jacket off, tie loosened slightly. He looked less intimidating without the full armor of his suit. Almost human.

Almost.

“You came,” he said.

“You sent martinis. I was curious about your intentions.”

“My intentions are to have a conversation. Nothing more sinister than talking.” He gestured to the seat across from him. “Sit. Please.”

I slid into the booth, keeping my distance. The space felt too small suddenly, the air charged with something I couldn’t name.

“Your friend looks like she wants to murder me,” Xander observed.

I glanced back. Maya was watching from across the room, phone in hand, looking ready to call the police.

“She’s protective.”

“Good. You should have people who protect you.” He pushed one of the martinis toward me. “I apologize for earlier. I have a tendency to be too direct. My sister says I have the social skills of a particularly aggressive shark.”

“Your sister sounds wise.”

“She’s a pain in the ass. But yes, occasionally wise.” He took a sip of his own drink. “So. Diana. Tell me about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What do you do? Or perhaps, what did you do before whatever happened to make you carry yourself like you’re trying to disappear?”

I tensed. “Who says something happened?”

“Your posture. The way you scan the room. People don’t move through the world like someone who’s afraid of being recognized unless they have a reason.” He tilted his head. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m just curious what makes someone who clearly doesn’t belong in places like this show up anyway.”

“My friend dragged me here.”

“Did she? Or did you want to prove something to yourself?”

The observation was too sharp, too accurate. I took a long sip of my martini to buy time.

“I was an events manager,” I said finally. “At a high-end restaurant.”

“Was?”

“Was.”

“And now?”

“And now I’m figuring out what comes next.”

Xander studied me with those unsettling eyes. “Let me guess. Something went wrong. Publicly. Spectacularly. And now you’re unemployed and trying to decide whether to rebuild or give up entirely.”

“You make a lot of assumptions.”

“I’m good at reading people. It’s how I’ve survived in business.” He leaned back. “So which is it? Rebuilding or giving up?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Fair answer.” He swirled his drink. “Tell me about the work. What kind of events did you manage?”

“Weddings mostly. Corporate galas. Anniversary parties. High-end clients with expectations bordering on impossible.”

“And you met those expectations?”

“I did. For three years, I made the impossible happen.” The pride in my voice surprised me. “I turned chaos into perfection. Bridezillas into satisfied brides. Disasters into triumphs.”

“So you were good at it.”

“I was excellent at it.”

“Past tense?”

I swallowed hard. “The industry has a short memory for success and a long memory for scandal.”

“Ah. So there was a scandal.” He said it matter-of-factly, without judgment. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Then we won’t.” He shifted topics seamlessly. “What made you love it? The events work.”

The question caught me off guard. Nobody had asked me what I loved about my job in weeks. Only what had gone wrong.

“The problem-solving,” I said slowly. “Every event was a puzzle. A hundred moving pieces requiring precision timing. And when it all came together perfectly, when the bride cried happy tears or the CEO gave a speech about how flawless everything was, I knew. I knew I’d created something meaningful.”

“You made people’s dreams real.”

“I made their perfect moments possible. Which sounds cheesy, but yes. I gave people memories.”

“Not cheesy. Valuable.” Xander leaned forward slightly. “People spend their whole lives chasing perfect moments. You created them on demand. Most people can’t do something like this.”

“Most people don’t have everything stripped away when one thing goes wrong.”

“One thing? Or someone?”

I looked at him sharply. “What makes you think someone was involved?”

“Because bad things don’t just happen to competent people. Someone usually makes them happen. Incompetence, malice, or occasionally both.” He took another sip. “You don’t strike me as incompetent. Which means someone made your life difficult on purpose.”

“You’re perceptive.”

“I’m observant. There’s a difference.” He set down his glass. “Tell me something. Before everything went wrong, what was the best event you ever managed?”

I found myself smiling despite everything. “The Ashford wedding. Two years ago. The original planner had a nervous breakdown three weeks before the ceremony. Everything was chaos. The bride was hysterical. They brought me in last minute to save it.”

“And you did.”

“I did. Eighty guests, four-course dinner, orchestra, custom florals. I coordinated seventeen vendors, mediated a family feud, and convinced a Michelin-starred chef to create an entirely new dessert course in forty-eight hours.” The memory was bittersweet now. “I barely slept for three weeks. But when the bride walked down the aisle and everything was perfect, when she hugged me afterward and cried and said I’d given her the most beautiful day of her life, I knew. I knew I was good at this.”

“You loved it.”

“I did. I loved every impossible, chaotic, exhausting moment of it.”

“So why did you stay at one restaurant? Why not start your own company?”

The question hit a nerve. “How do you know I didn’t?”

“Because you said ‘was’ an events manager. Not ‘am’ a business owner. And because someone with your talent and passion would have gone independent by now unless something held you back.”

“Someone,” I said quietly. “My ex-fiancé. He said it was too risky. Said I should build more experience before gambling on something unstable.”

“And you listened to him.”

“I was young. Stupid. In love. Pick your excuse.”

“Those aren’t excuses. They’re reasons. There’s a difference.” Xander’s expression softened slightly. “But you’re not with him anymore.”

“No. I’m not.”

“So now you’re free to take the risks he wouldn’t let you take.”

“I’m also blacklisted, broke, and living on my best friend’s couch. Not exactly prime entrepreneurial conditions.”

“Some of the best companies in the world were started by people at rock bottom. Nothing left to lose makes you dangerous.” He studied me. “Are you dangerous, Diana?”

“I used to be competent. I don’t know what I am anymore.”

“You’re sitting in a private booth with a stranger in an exclusive club, having a conversation you probably shouldn’t be having. I’d say there’s still some danger left in you.”

Despite everything, I laughed. It surprised me, bubbling up from somewhere I thought had died. A real laugh, not the polite sounds I’d made for years at Leo’s dinner parties.

Xander smiled, the expression transforming his face. “There it is.”

“What?”

“The first genuine emotion I’ve seen from you all night. Everything else has been armor. But something like this was real.”

“Maybe I don’t like being analyzed.”

“Maybe you’re tired of people who don’t bother to look beneath the surface.” He signaled the server for another round. “Tell me something nobody knows about you.”

“Why would I tell you anything?”

“Because I’m a stranger. Because this conversation ends when you walk away. Because sometimes it’s easier to be honest with someone who has no stake in your life.”

He was right. There was something freeing about talking to someone who knew nothing about me beyond what he’d observed.

“I wanted to study hospitality design in Europe,” I said. The words came out before I could stop them. “Paris. Milan. Learn from the best. Come back and build something no one had seen before. Events as immersive art experiences, not just dinner and dancing.”

“What stopped you?”

“Life. My father. Leo. The usual excuses people make when they’re too afraid to chase what they want.”

“And now?”

“And now those excuses are gone. But so is everything else.”

“Not everything. You still have the dream. Dreams are the only things worth having when you’ve lost everything else.”

We talked for another hour. The conversation flowed easier than it should have between strangers. He asked about my mother, and I found myself telling him about the accident, about growing up with a father who remarried too fast and a stepsister who made my childhood a war zone.

He told me about his own family. A mother who valued appearance over substance. A sister who rebelled by becoming an artist. A father who died when Xander was twenty-two, leaving him an empire and expectations he’d spent a decade exceeding.

“You’re not what I expected,” I said finally.

“What did you expect?”

“Someone colder. More calculating. You came over like a predator, all intensity and analysis. But you’re…”

“Human?”

“Surprisingly easy to talk to.”

“I’m only cold with people who bore me. You don’t bore me.” He checked his watch, a platinum piece more expensive than my former rent. “It’s late. Your friend is probably ready to storm over here and rescue you.”

I glanced toward where Maya had been sitting. She was standing now, phone in hand, looking worried.

“I should go.”

“Before you do, I have a question. Have you ever seen a Rothko up close?”

The sudden shift confused me. “The painter? No. Why?”

“I have a private collection. Upstairs. Three Rothkos, two Pollocks, a Basquiat, and several pieces from contemporary artists most people haven’t heard of yet.” He stood, extending his hand. “I’d like to show you.”

Every alarm bell in my head started ringing. Private collection. Upstairs. Alone with a man I’d met two hours ago.

“That’s not—”

“I’m not propositioning you, Diana. I’m offering to show you art. The collection is in a gallery space The Vault maintains for members. There are security cameras everywhere. Your friend can come if you want. But the Rothkos are extraordinary, and you strike me as someone who appreciates beauty.”

I should say no. Should thank him for the drinks and the conversation and walk away before this went somewhere dangerous.

But when I looked at Xander, I didn’t see danger. I saw someone who’d made me laugh for the first time in weeks. Someone who’d asked about my dreams instead of my disasters.

Someone who looked at me and saw more than shame.

“Okay,” I said. “Show me the Rothkos.”

His smile was slow, satisfied. Like I’d just passed some test I didn’t know I was taking.

“Follow me.”

He led me out of the booth, his hand barely touching the small of my back. The contact sent electricity through the silk of Maya’s dress.

I caught Maya’s eye across the room and held up my phone, mouthing “fifteen minutes.”

She shook her head, looking terrified. But she didn’t stop me.

Xander guided me toward a private elevator in the back corner of the club. The doors opened silently, revealing mirrored walls and soft lighting.

We stepped inside.

The doors closed.

And I realized I’d just agreed to go somewhere private with a man who’d dissected parts of my soul with careful questions and made me want to show him more.

“The gallery is beautiful,” Xander said as the elevator rose. “Most people never see it. But I think you’ll appreciate it.”

“Why?”

“Because you understand the value of things appearing one way on the surface but revealing themselves to be something else entirely when examined closely.”

The elevator stopped. The doors opened.

And I stepped into whatever came next, equal parts terrified and exhilarated.

Not knowing this moment would change everything.

The gallery space stretched before us, and despite everything, despite the warning voices screaming in my head, all I felt was alive.

For the first time in weeks, Diana Pembroke felt alive.