Chapter 1
Olivia
Eleven PM, and the last customers finally cleared out of Velvet Bar. I wiped down the counter, my hands moving on autopilot while my brain calculated tonight's tips—still not enough for next month's rent.
"Shit," I muttered under my breath, placing the last glass back on the shelf.
New York City was like some massive beast, devouring little people like me every single day.
Six months ago, I was naive enough to think hard work would be enough to make it here. Now I knew better—surviving in Manhattan was a hundred times more brutal than I'd ever imagined.
Especially on nights like tonight, when rich boys got half-drunk and started undressing me with their eyes.
I grabbed my coat and purse, pushing through the back door into the alley.
October nights in New York cut right through you. I pulled my jacket tight and picked up the pace.
"Hey there, beautiful. What's the rush?"
My blood turned to ice.
I spun around to see Bradley Morrison—the spoiled brat who'd been harassing me all night.
"Bradley, the bar's closed. You should go home." I kept my voice steady, but my heart was already hammering.
He laughed, swaying as he walked toward me. "Home? I'm not done playing yet." His eyes crawled all over me without shame. "Drop the act, sweetheart. Girls like you who work in bars—you're all selling something. I'll pay double tonight."
Rage shot straight to my head. "Get the hell away from me!"
"Feisty. I like that." Bradley suddenly lunged forward, grabbing my wrist. "I enjoy a challenge."
His grip was shockingly strong, and the stench of booze mixed with cheap cologne hit me like a wall. I fought back, but his hand clamped down like a vise.
"Let me go! I'll call the cops!" I screamed.
"The cops?" Bradley laughed, his other hand starting to tear at my uniform. "You know who my dad is? He owns this whole block. Even the cops kiss his ass."
My uniform buttons popped open, and terror mixed with fury flooded through me. That's when a low voice cut through the darkness.
"She said let her go."
Bradley froze. We both turned toward the voice as a tall figure emerged from the shadows. Under the dim streetlight, I couldn't make out his face, but I could feel something dangerous radiating from him.
"Mind your own business, pal," Bradley said, trying to sound tough, but I noticed his hands shaking.
The stranger didn't answer, just kept walking closer. When he stepped into the light, I gasped.
Jesus Christ.
This man looked like the devil himself walking out of hell. Sharp features, eyes so dark they seemed to swallow everything, and this raw, dangerous magnetism that made your skin crawl. He wore a black coat, and everything about him screamed predator.
"Last warning," his voice was barely above a growl. "Let her go."
Bradley was clearly rattled, but alcohol and stupidity made him choose wrong.
"I told you to stay out of—"
He never finished the sentence.
It was the fastest, most precise punch I'd ever seen. Bradley didn't even have time to react before the hit connected with his jaw, sending him flying backward into a dumpster.
"Next time I see you touch her, I'll break your hands," the man said, looking down at Bradley with terrifying calm.
Bradley struggled to his feet, blood streaming from his nose, but facing this guy who was obviously bad news, he finally sobered up. "You—you know who I am? My father—"
"I don't give a damn who your father is." The man took a step forward, and Bradley immediately backed away. "Get lost."
Bradley scrambled up and stumbled away like a beaten dog.
I leaned against the wall, trying to get my heart rate under control. Everything had happened so fast, my brain was still trying to process it all.
"You okay?"
I looked up to find my savior watching me with concern. Up close, he was even more striking.
"Thanks, but I can take care of myself," I said, trying to sound tough even though I'd obviously been helpless against Bradley.
"Clearly," he said dryly, then slipped off his coat and draped it over my shoulders. The coat was still warm from his body and smelled like expensive cologne, wrapping around me like a cocoon. "I'm Mike. Are you hurt?"
Mike. The name rolled around in my head.
"I don't go anywhere with strangers," I said, taking a step back. Living as a single woman in New York had taught me to be suspicious of all men, even ones who'd just saved me.
He nodded toward the five-star hotel on the corner, a knowing smile playing at his lips. "So you're planning to walk home in torn clothes in the rain?"
That's when I noticed the drizzle starting to fall, and my uniform really was ripped to shreds.
"I can call a cab," I insisted.
"Looking like that?" He raised an eyebrow. "The driver's going to think you're a working girl."
Damn it, he was right. I looked like hell.
The rain was getting heavier, and I hesitated. This mysterious man had saved me, and he didn't seem like a creep. Most importantly, I really did need somewhere to pull myself together.
"Just to use the bathroom," I emphasized.
"Of course." His smile had a lethal charm to it. "I promise you'll be safe."
Twenty minutes later, I was standing in the presidential suite at the Ritz, too shocked to speak.
Floor-to-ceiling windows showed off the glittering Manhattan skyline, and this room was ten times bigger than my apartment, decorated like something out of a movie.
"Who the hell are you?" I turned to ask.
Mike was at the bar, pouring himself a whiskey. Under the bright lights, I could see his face clearly—the kind of face that could make women lose their minds.
"Just a lonely man who needs some comfort," he said, raising his glass to me before downing it in one gulp.
I caught a flash of pain in his eyes, so real it made my heart soften despite myself.
"Today was supposed to be important... but she chose someone else." His voice carried the weight of alcohol and bitterness.
"You still love her?" I don't know why I asked.
He laughed bitterly, walking to the window. "I don't know. Maybe I just hate being thrown away." He turned to look at me, something dangerous flickering in his eyes. "Would you throw away someone who saved you?"
Damn. This man had a lethal magnetism that made it impossible to look away.
Maybe tonight's trauma had left me emotionally raw, maybe the loneliness in his eyes triggered something in me, but when he slowly walked toward me, I didn't back away.
"You're beautiful," he said, his hand gently touching my cheek. "Beautiful enough to make a man want to possess you."
I should have left. Logic screamed that this was dangerous, but my body betrayed my brain.
When his lips met mine, I felt the whole world catch fire.
That night, I fell completely.
I woke up to afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows. I reached groggily for the other side of the bed, but found only empty space.
"Mike?" I sat up, looking around.
The suite was empty.
On the nightstand sat a business card and a stack of cash. With trembling hands, I picked up the card—"Mike Johnson" and a phone number. The cash was a thousand dollars.
I dialed the number on the card.
"The number you have dialed is not in service..."
I felt like I'd been struck by lightning.
A fake business card, a fake name, and a thousand dollars in "thank you" money—like payment for a hooker.
I had never felt so humiliated in my life. Last night's tenderness and passion had all been an elaborate game. And I was the stupid prey.
The room still smelled like his cologne, that expensive scent now reeking of mockery. I clenched my jaw, fighting back tears.
"Olivia Smith, you're such an idiot!"
I swore right then and there—I would never trust another man again.
Never.