THREE
RYDER
I don’t usually frequent places like Sensational—at least not for fun. When I do show up, it’s strictly business.
Across from me in our plush VIP booth sits Ashton Hartley, a familiar face in my world. We’ve partnered on a few film projects before, but the most I’ve ever squeezed out of him was a few hundred grand here and there.
Tonight, though, I’m hoping to lock down a game-changing fifteen-million-dollar investment to finally launch my next film.
Meeting him at Sensational wasn’t just a coincidence.
it was calculated.
If there’s one thing Ashton loves, it’s liquor, luxury, and leggy women.
Loosen the purse strings with enough whiskey and eye candy. Classic formula.
“I skimmed the script,” Ashton says, knocking back the last of his Old Fashioned. He raises the empty glass, signaling the bottle girl.
She gives a sharp nod and hurries off to refill it. “I dig the tone, but the title’s gotta go. Juliet After Romeo sounds like some Shakespeare spin-off rom-com, not a badass spy flick.”
I bite back the urge to roll my eyes. Clearly, he didn’t read past the title page. “Juliet and Romeo are their code names—it’s a nod to the NATO phonetic alphabet, not the Bard.”
“Appreciate it, sweetheart,” he tells the bottle girl when she reappears with his drink. He flashes a grin and peels a crisp hundred from his jacket pocket.
“Oh, thank you, sugar,” she beams, cheeks turning pink as she glances shyly at me. “Can I get you anything, Mr. Vane?”
I shake my head. I’m not here to get buzzed—I’m here to make a deal.
Ashton takes a deep swig like he’s been baking in the desert all week. “So you’re directing and producing?”
“Correct.”
“Any thoughts on who you want in the lead?”
“I’ve already spoken to Winslet, she’s on board if scheduling aligns. Johansson was in the mix too, but her agent mentioned a possible conflict. I’m honestly leaning toward casting someone new. The industry’s overdue for fresh blood.”
He swirls his drink, giving me that faux-pensive investor face. “And how much are we talking?”
This is it. Showtime.
“Thirty million,” I say coolly, intentionally shooting high.
He sips, pretending to consider it, but I can read him like a script. He thinks he’s holding the reins, but really, I’ve been steering this wholclutche
Ashton’s a careful investor, the kind who clutches his wallet like it’s a lifeline. If I want that check signed, I’ll need to stay three moves ahead.
“Fifteen’s my cap,” Ashton says with an exaggerated sigh. “You know how things are these days. The economy’s basically roadkill.”
Bingo.
I keep my face neutral, tamping down the grin threatening to break loose. “No chance I can sway you? My films consistently bring home the bacon—big bacon.”
“I’m not budging, Vane. Take it or leave it.”
I sink back into the booth, trying to look contemplative rather than triumphant. The semicircular seat wraps around us like a fancy trap, with a glittery curtain of string lights offering some illusion of privacy.
It’s not exactly ergonomic, my spine already hates me but I’ll be damned if I wiggle and let Ashton think he’s in charge.
“I get it,” I say with a sigh of mock defeat. “Guess I’ll have to make fifteen million stretch. Expect the paperwork next week.”
Ashton grins like he’s just swindled a kid out of their lunch money. His teeth are a horror movie—crooked, yellow, and somehow always damp-looking. “Excellent. I can’t wait to—”
He stops mid-sentence as two young women stroll past our booth, oblivious to the fact that I’m sitting there, facing their direction.
One’s in a blue sequined mini, the other in a screaming neon pink number that clings to her like plastic wrap on leftovers. My pants tighten instantly, as if they’ve just remembered they’re alive.
Ashton whistles like a cartoon wolf. “God, I love this place. Let’s send those stunners a couple drinks. Maybe we get lucky.”
I shoot him a look. “Careful. What would your wife say?”
“She’s too busy draining my accounts and raiding her Xanax stash to care where I stick my dick.”
“Charming. Truly.”
“C’mon, you don’t think I’ve got a shot?”
I purse my lips in a way that makes it obvious I’m judging him without saying a word. Years in this industry have taught me that silence cuts deeper than any insult—especially when your face screams, ‘Bless your deluded little heart.’
Ashton scoffs and stands, grabbing his coat with all the flair of a guy who thinks he’s the main character. “Thanks for the drinks, Vane. Always a pleasure.”
“Sure. Let’s call it that.”
He saunters off, dropping another absurdly large tip in the bottle girl’s hand and slipping her his card like he’s James Bond and not, in fact, a semi-pickled finance goblin in a designer suit.
He heads down the mezzanine stairs into the main club, flanked by velvet ropes and a pair of bouncers who look like they were born in suits and molded from granite.
I’m about to settle the tab Ashton so kindly left for me when I catch familiar voices drifting from the booth next to mine.
It’s the girls. Those girls.
And judging by the burst of laughter that bubbles through the string lights separating our booths, it’s clear—this night just took a very unexpected and wildly interesting turn.
“I told you,” one girl cackles. “He booked, like, a bajillion private sets. We are making bank tonight, babe!”
“I can’t pay you back right now, Taylor. I already owe you too much as it is.”
That second voice.
I go completely still the moment it hits my ears.
Eve.