My gaze follows her while my mind catalogues every detail about her.
The dark hair that falls in soft waves around her shoulders.
The blue dress that clings just enough to highlight her delicious curves.
Then she steps further into the room, and when the light hits her beautiful face, I stop breathing. The music disappears and the voices fade into the background. I know her.
I’ve never met her, but I know her.
Two years ago, her picture hung in a cramped office at the back of a repair shop. The smell of motor oil and grease hung in the air. Blood soaked through my shirt as the wound’s pain made my vision blurry.
I’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time and got caught up in someone else’s brawl. A stray knife caught my ribs, and I barely got away before the cops showed up. My undercover persona couldn’t risk having to answer questions, or worse, get arrested.
Barely hanging on to consciousness, I stumbled through a side door, seeking shelter. I remember expecting questions. Instead, a mechanic named Ben Noble took one look at me and got to work. There was no panic, no judgement, no police.
Just an expertly filled first-aid kit and a stubborn refusal to let me die.
After sticking me back together, the man spent hours taking care of me while pretending not to notice the gun in my jacket.
I owe him my life.
And while I recovered in that office, my gaze locked on the photographs pinned to a corkboard above his desk. One picture in particular.
It was of a teenage girl laughing at the camera while Ben stood beside her. His arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders.
"My sister," he said. The pride in his voice had been unmistakable. "I've been raising her since she was thirteen."
Sydney.
I remember her name both because I’ve always wanted to visit Australia, but also because of the way Ben said it. Like she was the most important thing in his world.
She’s even further into the room now, and the resemblance to the picture is unmistakable. The same green eyes. The same sunny smile, although tonight’s is more fragile than the one in the picture. She’s an older version of the girl from the photograph.
Sydney Noble.
What the hell is she doing here?
A knot forms in my stomach when I see the number pinned to her dress.
Twenty-three.
Tonight, she doesn’t have a name. She’s reduced to a number.
My jaw clenches.
Ben spent years sacrificing everything for her. During those hours in the back of that repair shop, he told me about losing his dad. About becoming the guardian of his teen-aged sister so she didn’t get lost in the system. Instead of becoming a doctor, as he’d planned, the man worked seventy-hour weeks turning wrenches because he loved her that much.
And now she's standing in a ballroom where rich men shop for mistresses. Watching her move through the crowd, I mentally shake my head at how profoundly wrong this is. She doesn't belong here. Not because she's too good for it, but because she's desperate enough for it.
I’ve built my life around reading micro-expressions and signals. I know desperation when I see it. My gaze narrows.
Why the fuck is she here?
Then I see Victor Lang approaching her, and my mood instantly darkens. Lang is wealthy, powerful, and respected. On paper.
The reality is uglier. I've heard enough stories about women who leave his penthouse with expensive jewelry and haunted eyes to believe that at least some of them must be true. These women sign non-disclosure agreements, disappear from public view, and never press charges.
Watching him approach Sydney is like watching a predator selecting a target. My hand tightens on the glass in my hand.
