The city's noise was a welcome blanket.
It was easier to hide here, in the afternoon crowd, than in the suffocating silence of my own head.
I focused on the mission: Billy's gift.
The Lego set—a complex spaceship he'd circled in a catalog months ago—was a box of potential in my hands. Apromise of hours spent on the floor of Nonna's living room, our heads bent together, building a world that was only ours.
That's when the world tilted.
An impact from behind sent me stumbling forward. The box flew from my hands, skittering across the pavement. My bag tumbled, spilling its contents.
"Oh my god, I am so sorry!"
The voice was male, laced with genuine alarm. I spun around, my body tensing on instinct, ready for a threat, ready to snarl.
I found myself facing not a threat, but a disaster.
A man was crouching, desperately trying to gather the scattered items from my bag with an almost comical clumsiness.
He looked up, and I was struck by the sheer openness of his face. No mask, no calculation. Just honest, flustered apology.
"I was checking a text from my… brother," he grimaced, holding up my wallet and a loose lipstick like peace offerings. "I'm a hazard. Please, let me."
He stood, and I finally got a proper look at him. He was handsome in a way that had nothing to do with the polished predators of the Onyx Club.
It was a lived-in, approachable handsomeness. And his eyes… they were a warm, liquid brown, currently wide with chagrin.
My defensive posture softened. The sheer normality of the accident was disarming.
"It's… fine," I said, my voice quieter than I intended. I took the items from his hands, our fingers brushing. "No harm done."
His gaze then dropped to the box he'd rescued from under a bench.
He read the label, his eyebrows raising in appreciation. "The Galactic Explorer. No way." A real, easy smile broke across his face, transforming it. "For your… little brother? You're about to become the coolest person on the planet."
The assumption was so innocent it was like a punch to the gut. I felt a real, un-practiced smile touch my own lips. "Something like that," I said, the lie feeling lighter than my usual ones. "For someone with a very important imagination."
He held the box out to me. "Darel," he said.
I took it. The name felt solid in the space between us. "Riley."
For a single, suspended second, standing in the messy aftermath of a clumsy accident, the ghost in Room 721 felt a million miles away.
He fell into step beside me as I continued down the sidewalk, an unexpected and strangely comfortable silence settling between us. It wasn't the heavy, suffocating silence i usually felt. This was… peaceful.
"Look," he said, breaking the quiet with that same easy, self-deprecating tone. "I feel terrible. I nearly destroyed a future engineer's dreams. Let me buy you a coffee? As a proper apology for my catastrophic clumsiness."
I almost said no. The word was a reflex, perched on my tongue. No, I have to go. No, it's not safe. No, I don't do this.
But I looked at him. At the hopeful, slightly embarrassed curve of his smile. And for the first time in a long time, the part of me that was just Riley, and not the Jewel, won.
"A coffee," I said, the words feeling foreign. "Okay."
We found a small, independent cafe tucked between two larger buildings.
The air inside smelled of roasted beans and warm pastries. It was the antithesis of the Onyx Club's cold, scentless opulence.
We took a small table in the corner, and I held the Lego box on my lap like a talisman.
"So," he began, stirring his latte. "Riley. Are you always this forgiving of public menaces?"
A small, real laugh escaped me. "Only the ones who have good taste in toys."
His smile widened. "It's a classic. The best kind. No flashy licenses, just pure, unadulterated building." He leaned forward slightly, his warm brown eyes earnest. "You know, most people just get a gift card. It takes a special person to actually listen and get the right thing."
His words, so simple and true, struck a chord so deep it vibrated in my soul. That was it. That was the entire, exhausting purpose of my life—to listen, to see Billy, to fight for every right thing he deserved.
I looked down, tracing the edge of the box. "Everyone deserves to have someone get them the right thing," I said softly, the words more vulnerable than I'd meant them to be.
The air between us shifted. The light flirtation faded, replaced by something more substantial.
He watched me for a moment, then sighed, a real weight seeming to settle on his shoulders. "Yeah. They do." He stared into his coffee cup. "My family... they're all about the wrong things. The big, flashy, expensive things that look impressive but don't mean anything. They have this... legacy. But they only see value in one kind of strength."
I stayed silent, letting him talk, a familiar bitterness in his voice that I recognized all too well.
"The kind that breaks things," he continued, his voice dropping. "The kind that leaves a mark. They can't see that building something, creating something... that takes a different kind of power entirely. A better kind."
As he said the word "power," a flicker of gold ignited in the depths of his brown eyes, so fast I would have missed it if I hadn't been looking directly at him. It wasn't a threat.
It was a spark of raw, frustrated emotion, a glimpse of something wild and potent he kept tightly leashed.
In that moment, he wasn't just a charming stranger. He was a kindred spirit. Another soul trapped by a system that didn't understand its worth.
And it made him more dangerous to my carefully constructed walls than any threat ever could.
The warmth of the cafe, the low hum of conversation, the understanding in his eyes—it was a dangerous cocoon. For a handful of minutes, I had forgotten. I was just a woman, having coffee with a kind, interesting man.
But reality is a tide, and it always comes rushing back.
Darel's phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at it, and his easy expression tightened into a grimace. "Speak of the devils," he muttered, silencing it.
"The family business?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
"Their annual circus is coming up," he said, rolling his eyes with a theatrical sigh, but I could see the genuine dread beneath the performance. "A massive gala. My attendance is... non-negotiable. Which means showing up alone and enduring a night of pitying looks and not-so-subtle setups is also non-negotiable."
He looked at me then, a new, nervous energy replacing his earlier frustration. He ran a hand through his hair. "This is going to sound insane, and feel free to say no, but... would you want to go? With me? I know it's a lot to ask, but you'd literally be saving me from a fate worse than death. Or at least, a fate of extreme boredom."
My heart, which had felt so light moments before, plummeted. The question wasn't insane. It was a key, offered innocently, to a door I could never walk through.
The words were ash in my mouth. "Darel... I can't."
His face fell, just for a second, before he masked it with a understanding nod. "Right. Of course. It was a long shot."
"It's not that I don't want to," I rushed to say, the truth fighting its way out.
"I... I have a prior commitment. One I can't break." The irony was a physical pain. My commitment was to the very world he was trying to escape for a night.
"I understand," he said, and he sounded like he meant it. He hesitated, then asked, "Can I at least get your number? So I can prove I'm not always a clumsy disaster who gets rejected in cafes?"
It was the final barrier. Giving him my number was a thread, a connection that could be traced, that could lead him to the Onyx Club, to my life, to Billy. I saw the hopeful look in his eyes, and it took every ounce of my strength to extinguish it.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, shaking my head. "I can't."
The finality of it hung in the air. The beautiful, fragile bubble we'd built had popped.
We walked out of the cafe together, the easy silence now strained and heavy. As we paused on the sidewalk to say goodbye, he turned to me.
"Thank you, Riley. For the coffee. And for not yelling at me in the street."
Before I could reply, he reached out. His hand was gentle, his touch feather-light as he tucked a loose strand of my ponytail behind my ear. His fingers barely grazed my skin, but the contact was a lightning strike in the quiet afternoon. It was the first kind, non-violent, asking touch I had felt in years.
My breath caught. Every instinct screamed to lean into it, to memorize the feeling.
But I just stood there, frozen.
"Take care of yourself," he said softly, his eyes holding mine for a moment too long. Then he turned and walked away, swallowed by the city's flow.
I stood there, clutching the Lego box, my ear still tingling from his touch. The ghost was back. But this time, it wasn't the cold horror of Falon's secret.
It was the haunting, beautiful ghost of what could never be.
The walk back to the Onyx Club was a funeral march for a feeling I'd barely let myself name.
The lingering warmth from Darel's touch warred with the creeping dread of my reality. Each step felt heavier than the last, the Lego box in my hand transforming from a symbol of hope back into a stark reminder of why I could never have it.
I slipped through the service entrance, the transition from vibrant city to silent, gilded tomb as jarring as a bucket of ice water.
I just needed to get to my room. To lock the door and let the memory of the afternoon play out one more time before the world inevitably ripped it away.
I was steps from my door, my hand reaching for the handle like a lifeline, when a shadow detached itself from the wall.
Danny.
He wasn't just waiting. He was a storm contained in human form, his arms crossed, his jaw so tight I could see the muscle twitching. The usual softness in his hazel eyes was gone, replaced by a hard, wounded intensity.
"Where were you?" The question wasn't a query; it was an accusation, low and strained.
The lie was ready, the one about wandering the city to clear my head after the "Marcus" incident.
But when I opened my mouth, nothing came out. The memory of Darel's laugh, the feel of his hand, it had all felt so real. Lying about it now felt like a desecration.
"I was out," I said, my voice flat, evasive.
"Out," he repeated, the word a blade. "Finn was looking for you again. Not a request, Riley. A summons. And you were just...out." He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a furious whisper.
"You're lying to me. I can see it. After everything I've done to keep you safe, you just shut me out? What am I, just hired help?"
That stung.
It stung because it was the exact weapon I'd given him by pushing him away. My own fear and guilt curdled into a defensive, cold fury.
"My life is not your job to manage, Danny!" The words snapped out, sharper than I intended. "I don't have to report my every move to you. I am handling it."
"Handling it?" He let out a harsh, disbelieving breath. "You look like you've seen a ghost, and you're telling me you're handling it?I'm your friend, Riley! Or I thought I was. Trust goes both ways."
There it was. The truth, laid bare. This wasn't about protocol. It was about betrayal. And I had to keep committing it.
"There's nothing to trust,"I said, turning my back to him and finally shoving my key into the lock. "It's handled. "Leave it alone."
I felt his stare on my back, a physical weight of hurt and frustration. I didn't look back. I pushed the door open, stepped into the dim silence of my room, and closed it, shutting him out.
The click of the lock was the loneliest sound I'd ever heard.
I had maybe five minutes of peace. Five minutes to lean against the locked door, to press my fingers to my temple where the ghost of a gentle touch still lingered.
Five minutes before the sharp, imperious knock came.
It wasn't Danny. This knock was different. It was Finn's.
A cold resignation washed over me. There was no hiding from this.
I opened the door. Finn stood there, his pinched face unreadable, a long, black garment bag draped over his arm.
"My office. Now."
He didn't wait for a reply, turning on his heel.
I followed, the walk feeling like a march to the gallows. His office was as cold and perfect as he was, all sharp angles and dark wood.
He closed the door and turned to me, his beady eyes assessing me like a piece of livestock.
"You've been requested," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "A private client. The Gray gala."
My blood ran cold. The Gray gala. The very one Darel had just asked me to.
"He requires a date. Someone presentable. Discreet. An ornament, not a companion. "Finn's lips curled in a faint, cruel smile. "He paid a significant premium for the privilege. You will be pleasant. You will be charming. You will be utterly forgettable afterwards. Do you understand?"
He didn't tell me the name. Of course he didn't. I was a service, not a person.
Then, he held out the garment bag. "He was... specific about the attire."
With numb fingers, I unzipped the bag.
Inside was a dress. Not the black or white I was expecting.
It was the color of deep, rich wine. Elegant, sleeveless, deceptively simple in cut, but the fabric whispered of obscene expense.
It was the dress of a woman who belonged in that world, a dress for a real date.
The irony was a physical blow, so vicious it stole my breath.
Darel.
The kind, frustrated man from the cafe. The one person who had felt real.
His family had paid to rent me. His "date" was a transaction. My "charm" was a performance ordered by his brother. The kindness had been a prelude to a job.
Finn watched the realization dawn on my face, and he seemed to enjoy it. "He will pick you up at eight. Don't be late."
He turned his back, a clear dismissal.
I stood there, clutching the wine-colored dress, the symbol of everything I'd just been offered and had to refuse.
The facade of the sweet, normal afternoon was utterly obliterated, replaced by the cold, hard truth.
I was no longer just a slave.
I was now a paid escort for the man I'd just rejected, ordered to deceive him.