The sun had set, and Cloud City had transformed into a grid of neon and gold.

A black sedan pulled up to the valet stand of La Rive, the most exclusive private club in the city. The doorman, a man who had turned away senators, checked his clipboard.

"Name?"

"Felix Vance," the agent said, stepping out of the car. He extended a hand to help Ivy out.

She emerged.

She wore a dress of crimson silk, backless and plunging. It was the color of fresh blood, the color of war. It clung to her curves like a second skin. Her hair was swept up, revealing the elegant line of her neck.

The doorman blinked. He didn't ask for her name. He just opened the velvet rope.

Inside, the club was dimly lit, the air filled with the soft crooning of a jazz singer and the clinking of crystal.

Ivy scanned the room as they walked to their table. She saw producers, oil tycoons, politicians. The air smelled of money and secrets.

"Don't look too hungry," Felix whispered as they sat down in a shadowed booth.

"I'm not hungry," Ivy replied, picking up the menu. "I'm full."

She ordered a glass of champagne, but she didn't drink it. She watched the door. She watched Braeden's usual table. It was empty.

After twenty minutes, she felt a restlessness in her legs.

"I'm going to the ladies' room," she told Felix.

She slipped away from the table, navigating the crowded room. The hallway leading to the restrooms was quiet, lined with plush velvet wallpaper and potted palms. The jazz music faded to a dull thrum.

Ivy paused in front of a mirror to check her lipstick.

Scritch. Scritch.

A soft sound came from behind a large fern in the corner.

Ivy turned. "Hello?"

Nothing.

She took a step closer. She saw a small shoe-a shiny black patent leather Mary Jane-poking out from behind the heavy velvet curtain.

Ivy crouched down. "That's not a very good hiding spot," she said gently.

The curtain moved. A little face peeked out.

It was a girl, maybe three years old. She had wild, curly dark hair and huge, terrified eyes. She was trembling.

Ivy's heart did a strange, painful flip in her chest. The girl looked... familiar. There was something about the shape of her eyes, the curve of her chin.

"Are you lost, sweetheart?" Ivy asked, extending a hand.

The girl stared at Ivy's hand but didn't take it. She shook her head frantically. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Mute? Ivy thought.

Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed from the far end of the hallway. A man's voice, deep and angry, called out. "Search the perimeter!"

The little girl's eyes went wide with panic. She lunged forward and grabbed Ivy's hand.

Her grip was desperate, shockingly strong for such tiny fingers.

"It's okay," Ivy started to say.

But the girl didn't wait. She pulled. She dragged Ivy toward a mahogany door marked VIP - PRIVATE.

Before Ivy could protest, the girl reached up, turned the heavy brass handle, and pulled Ivy inside.

The door clicked shut behind them, cutting off the noise from the hallway.

The VIP suite was freezing. The air conditioning was cranked down low, chilling the sweat on Ivy's skin. The room smelled of cedarwood, old leather, and a very expensive, very masculine cologne.

Ivy stumbled, trying to regain her balance in her heels. The little girl was still clutching her hand like a lifeline, pressing her small body against Ivy's leg.

"What on earth-"

"Who are you?"

The voice was like a glacier-deep, cold, and utterly devoid of warmth.

Ivy looked up.

Seated at a large round table in the center of the room was a man. He was striking, with sharp, aristocratic features and eyes the color of a stormy sea. He wore a black suit that cost more than Ivy's entire new wardrobe. He radiated power and irritation in equal waves.

Auguste Randall. The CEO of the Randall Group. The King of Cloud City.

Opposite him sat a woman in a silver sequined dress. She looked startled, her fork hovering halfway to her mouth.

"Auguste, who is this?" the woman demanded, looking Ivy up and down with distaste. "Is this the nanny?"

Auguste didn't look at his date. His gaze was fixed on the child clinging to Ivy.

"Ara," he said. His voice softened by a fraction of a degree, but it was still commanding. "Come here."

The little girl-Ara-shook her head violently. She buried her face in the silk of Ivy's dress, her small shoulders shaking.

Ivy felt the dampness of tears seeping through the fabric onto her thigh.

A wave of protective instinct, hot and fierce, surged through Ivy. She didn't know this child, but she knew that fear. She knew what it felt like to want to hide from the world.

Without thinking, Ivy placed her hand on Ara's head, stroking her messy curls.

"Apologies," Ivy said, lifting her chin to meet Auguste's gaze. "Your daughter... kidnapped me."

Auguste's eyes narrowed. He watched Ivy's hand on his daughter's head. He seemed surprised that Ara wasn't recoiling. Ara hated strangers. She hated being touched.

Yet here she was, melting into this woman in red.

A discreet man in a dark suit, who had been standing almost invisibly in the corner of the room, tensed and took a half-step forward. Auguste lifted a single, commanding finger, halting the bodyguard in his tracks. His gaze remained locked on Ivy, a flicker of something unreadable-curiosity, perhaps-briefly overriding his innate suspicion.

He turned to the woman in sequins. "As you can see," he said smoothly, "my domestic situation is chaotic. I cannot possibly continue this dinner."

The woman gaped. "You're kicking me out? Because the nanny can't control the brat?"

"She's not the nanny," Auguste said. "And yes. Leave."

The woman threw her napkin on the table, grabbed her clutch, and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the crystal glasses rattled.

Silence descended on the room.

Auguste stood up. He was tall, towering over the table. He walked toward them slowly, like a wolf circling a trap.

"Nobody sent you?" he asked, stopping two feet away.

Ivy held her ground, though her heart was hammering against her ribs. "I told you. I was in the hallway. She pulled me in."

Auguste looked at Ara, then back at Ivy. His gaze was intense, dissecting her.

"Who sent you?" he repeated, his voice dropping lower. "My mother? Or a competitor?"

"Nobody sent me!" Ivy snapped, her patience fraying. "I don't even know who you are."

That was a lie. Everyone knew Auguste Randall. But she needed him to believe she was just a bystander.

She tried to gently pry Ara's fingers off her hand. "Sweetie, I have to go."

Ara whimpered. It was a high, broken sound that tore at Ivy's heart. The girl looked up, her eyes pleading. She reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a small notepad and a crayon.

She scribbled furiously and held it up.

STAY.

Ivy bit her lip.

Auguste watched the exchange, his mask of indifference slipping for a moment. "She spoke to you?"

"She wrote to me," Ivy corrected.

Auguste reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a checkbook. He uncapped a fountain pen.

"How much?" he asked.

Ivy blinked. "Excuse me?"

"To stay," Auguste said, not looking up as he began to write. "For an hour. Until she falls asleep. My nanny is... unavailable. I need to finish some calls."

He ripped the check out and held it toward her. It was blank.

Ivy stared at the paper. Then she looked at his face. He thought she was a prostitute? Or an escort?

She laughed. It was a sharp, incredulous sound.

"I'm not for sale, Mr. Randall," she said.

She pushed his hand away.

"I have my own son waiting for me," she said, her voice softening as she looked down at Ara. "I can't stay."

Auguste paused. "You have a child?"

"Yes."

Ara's shoulders slumped. She looked defeated. She let go of Ivy's hand and trudged toward the velvet sofa in the corner, curling up into a miserable little ball.

Ivy turned to the door. She put her hand on the handle.

She looked back.

The room was vast and cold. Auguste had already turned back to his phone. The little girl looked so small, so lonely on that giant sofa.

It reminded her of Albion in the early days, when they had nothing.

Ivy cursed under her breath.

She walked back to the sofa. She sat down on the edge, avoiding Auguste's surprised glance.

"I can't stay long," she whispered to Ara. "But... do you know the song about the moon?"

Ara shook her head, her eyes wide.

Ivy began to hum. It was a simple, melancholic lullaby she used to sing to Albion when the thunder scared him. Her voice was low and rich, filling the silence of the room.

Sleep, little star, the night is your friend...

Ara's eyelids fluttered. Her breathing slowed. Within minutes, her grip on the cushion relaxed. She was asleep.

Ivy stopped humming. The silence returned, but it felt less hostile now.

She stood up, smoothing her dress.

Auguste was watching her. He hadn't made a single call. He was just... watching.

"You have a nice voice," he said. It sounded like an accusation.

"You owe me an apology," Ivy said quietly. "Not money."

She walked to the door.

"Wait," Auguste said.

But Ivy didn't wait. She slipped out into the hallway, her heart racing, leaving the check on the table untouched.