I finally shuffle and squeeze my way through, stumbling into the nearly empty hallway. I pause. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a party thatdidn’thave a line for the bathroom. I shrug it off, my need to pee outweighing everything else as the click of my heels echoes around me.
“Hi.”
A deep voice vibrates down the long hallway. Calm and way too close. I jolt, nearly tripping over my own feet. A pair of rough hands catches me—like they had already been waiting.
“Whoa, careful,” he says smoothly.
I look up.
The blood drains from my face.Of all the people I could’veliterallystumbled into, why did it have to be him?
He releases me slowly, his touch lingering long enough to make my skin crawl.
On the surface, he’s classically handsome. He’s tall, broad, and too well-dressed for a casual house party. His blonde hair is swept back, jaw lined with faint scruff. But I know the kind of person he is beneath the smoke and mirrors.
Gideon Cross.My father’s client.
“What are you doing here?” he asks casually, his brow lifting. “You’re Warren Becker’s daughter, right?”
His tone is polite. Curious, even. But it still sends a ripple of dread down my spine.
“I—yeah,” I say, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. I clear my throat. “I’m Sadie.”
I don’t offer a hand. I don’t want him to touch me again.
He smiles—slow and knowing—then turns to grab two glasses of amber liquid from a table behind him. “Well, that makes this even more interesting.”
He hands one to me.
I take it because I don’t know what else to do. But I don’t drink.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, tilting his glass toward mine. “Not a whiskey girl?”
I force a tight smile. “Not really.”
He chuckles, lifting his glass for a sip. “I’m insulted. That pour is worth twelve hundred dollars.”
“Great,” I mutter. “Bill my father.”
His smile sharpens. “Come on. Just a little sip. It’s my birthday, after all.”
My eyes slide in the direction of the distant crowd. Laughter and music thump faintly from the main room. I’m alone back here. Withhim.
But nothing’s technically wrong.
It’s just a hallway. Just a man. Just a drink.
But it’s neverjustthose things, and my stomach twists in a way I’ve learned not to ignore. I know this feeling. I grew up surrounded by men who smile like him. Monsters masquerading as gentlemen.
I’m overthinking. I always do. Right? But I don’t want to make a scene. I don’t want to make it worse.
I lift the glass and take the smallest sip imaginable. It’s the equivalent of dipping my tongue in mouthwash. It burns, harsh and smoky and bitter.
“Yeah,” I say, grimacing. “Still don’t like whiskey.”
He laughs again, but it doesn’t feel light anymore. His eyes rake over me like a predator sizing up his prey. My stomach twists, and I have to force myself to breathe.
I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.
