The bathroom was clad in black marble, larger than Mia's studio apartment in Brooklyn. Muffled bass music and waves of expensive laughter seeped from behind the door. In the crystal-framed mirror, a stranger stared back. Her usually ponytailed black hair now fell in perfect waves. A simple, elegant dress, rented for the night from a friend who worked at a sample sale boutique, clung to her frame. She barely recognized herself. Or rather, she recognized the person she thought she could have been, in another life where debt wasn't a constant companion and her mother's medical bills weren't a relentless alarm.
"Nina Thierry," she whispered to her reflection, repeating the alias for the hundredth time that night. "You just moved from Paris. Your family is in the wine business. You don't know anyone. You're shy. You're just curious."
The phone in her fake gold clutch vibrated once. A message from Vincent Rossi. "He just arrived. Alone. You have one hour. Don't fail again, Carter."
Mia's chest tightened. This was her last chance. Her failure last week at the Downtown nightclub, where she'd been so nervous she spilled a drink on a socialite's lap, had nearly gotten her fired. Manhattan Spark might just be a gossip rag. But it was the only job that would take her and paid enough to cover the payments, and Vincent Rossi was merciless.
She took a deep breath, wiping her damp palms on the dress. She pressed the door handle, and another world swallowed her. Heat, expensive perfume, and crystal light. The Met Gala after-party at the Vanderbilt mansion on the Upper East Side was an ecosystem of power and false glitter. Here, wealth was the air you breathed.
Her eyes swept the room, searching for one figure: Lucas Thorne. His photographs did him no justice. In magazines, he looked like a cold statue. The CEO of Thorne Enterprises, heir to a media and real estate empire, and the most elusive quarry in gossip journalism. He never gave interviews. He was never caught off guard. His girlfriends, if they existed, were a mystery. The rumour was he would attend with Senator Lockwood's daughter, but Mia didn't see him. Or the senator's daughter.
After twenty minutes that felt like two hours, anxiety began to prickle. Her heart hammered at the thought of Rossi's reaction. Then she saw him. Not from the main entrance, but emerging from within the house itself. Luke Thorne. He was taller, more ordinary, in a simple, perfectly cut black suit. He was a point of calm in a glittering storm. Crucially, he was alone.
This was her chance. Mia followed him toward the terrace, trying to stay invisible. She took up a position behind a marble column, slipping her phone from her clutch. Her hand trembled as she framed his sharp profile, etched by moonlight.
In the large windowpane beside him, a perfect reflection, she saw those grey-blue eyes already staring straight at her. She froze. Luke did not turn. In the glass, Mia watched as he calmly sipped his whiskey. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he began to walk. Directly toward the column where she was hiding.
Each step was measured, calm, and lethal. Her feet were rooted to the marble floor. He arrived. His presence was like a change in air pressure. His eyes were the colour of an ocean on a stormy day.
"For posterity's sake, I assume," he said, his voice low, gravelly, and flat.
Mia forced her dry mouth to work. "I'm sorry?"
Luke ignored her question. His gaze fell to the gold clutch in her hands. "Camera's in there. Or maybe the tiny one on the brooch. Which do you prefer?"
Her skin flushed hot. "I don't know what you mean, Mr …"
"Thorne," he finished. "And you know exactly who I am." He took another half-step closer. Mia could smell his clean, understated soap. "This party is full of people who want to be remembered. Take their picture. But I prefer to be forgotten."
"It's just for a personal keepsake," she said, attempting a light laugh.
"Don't lie," he cut in, a sharpness in his voice that silenced her. "It makes the whole thing more pathetic." His eyes scanned her face. "Nina Thierry. From Paris. Wine family in Bordeaux." Mia nodded, too stiffly.
"Funny," Luke said. "I own several vineyards in Bordeaux. I know all the major families there. The name Thierry doesn't ring a bell."
A cold sweat trickled down her spine. She had miscalculated.
"Who invited you here?" he asked, the pressure behind the question feeling like a noose.
"A friend from …"
"No," Luke cut her off, leaning in slightly. Now Mia could see a faint weariness around his eyes. "You're not from this world. The way you stand, you hold your glass, it's like you're afraid it will break. You're an observer. An infiltrator."
She couldn't breathe. She was completely exposed.
"So, I'll give you one chance," Luke continued, his voice almost a whisper now. "Leave now. Delete whatever pictures you've taken. Tell whoever sent you that Luke Thorne is not a commodity they can trade in."
Anger suddenly boiled up in her chest. "With all due respect, Mr. Thorne," she said, her voice steadier than she expected, "if you're so keen on being forgotten, perhaps you shouldn't be one of the richest men in the city."
His eyes narrowed, almost in disbelief. "Now, if you'll excuse me," she said, attempting to step around him.
A warm, strong hand landed perfectly and lightly on the small of her back, stopping her. The touch was firm and undeniable. A jolt shot through the thin fabric of her dress.
"You have nerve," he whispered, a new note in his voice. Something almost like cruel curiosity. "But nerve without power is just naivete."
He tapped the phone in her clutch with the tip of his finger. "Delete it. Now. Or I will call security. Do you think your fake invitation will hold up under scrutiny?"
Mia bit her lip until it hurt. With trembling hands, she took out her phone and deleted the pictures under the unblinking, storm-like gaze of his eyes.
"The door is behind you," he said, no longer looking at her, as if she were merely a resolved disturbance.
Humiliated, furious, and shaking, she turned and walked. She felt his gaze on her back with every step, until she passed through the foyer and into the quiet lobby. Outside in the crisp May night air, she let the humiliating tears fall. She had failed utterly. Her phone vibrated. Rossi. She didn't answer.
In the silence and the shame, one thought pushed through, hard and clear. Luke Thorne's eyes weren't just cold. There had been a warning in them. Also, something else, something she recognized from seeing it in her own mirror. It was the wariness of someone under siege.