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.

Ivy practically ran to the valet stand. Felix was waiting by the car, looking anxious.

"Where have you been?" he hissed as she slid into the passenger seat. "You were gone for forty minutes."

"I met a lunatic," Ivy said, buckling her seatbelt with shaking hands. "And his sad kid."

"A lunatic?" Felix started the car. "At La Rive? Who?"

"Auguste Randall," Ivy said.

Felix nearly swerved into oncoming traffic. " The Auguste Randall? You met the head of the snake?"

"He tried to pay me to babysit," Ivy said, leaning her head back against the seat. "I refused."

Back at the club, the scene was very different.

Auguste carried the sleeping Ara out the back exit to his waiting armored Maybach. He placed her gently in the car seat, securing the buckles with practiced ease.

Justus Randall, his younger brother and VP, was in the driver's seat.

"Date went well?" Justus smirked, looking in the rearview mirror. "I saw the lady in sequins storm out."

Auguste ignored him. He climbed into the back seat.

"Pull the security footage from the hallway outside the VIP suite," Auguste ordered.

Justus blinked. "Why? Did something happen?"

"A woman," Auguste said. He touched his chest absently. His heart rate was still elevated. "Red dress. Ara... liked her."

"Ara liked a human?" Justus turned around, his jaw dropping. "That's impossible. Ara hates everyone except you."

"She fell asleep in five minutes," Auguste murmured. "The woman hummed a lullaby."

It was a melody that tugged at the edge of Auguste's memory. A hazy, drug-induced memory from four years ago. A rainy night. A woman's soft skin. A song.

He shook his head. Coincidence.

"Find out who she is," Auguste said, his voice hardening. "Everything. Name, address, history."

"On it," Justus said, tapping on his tablet as the car pulled away.

On the highway, the Maybach sped up, passing a black sedan in the slow lane.

Inside the sedan, Ivy looked out the window at the passing car. The windows were tinted dark, impenetrable. As the imposing vehicle swept past, an inexplicable shiver traced its way down Ivy's spine. She dismissed it as the evening chill, her thoughts already turning to the battles ahead.

She looked at Albion, asleep in the backseat.

"They looked alike," she whispered to herself. The little girl's eyes. Albion's eyes.

"Who?" Felix asked.

"Nothing," Ivy said. "Just my imagination."

Felix's phone pinged. "The casting director called. They want to see you tomorrow at 9 AM."

Ivy straightened up. The mother vanished. The actress returned.

"Good," she said, staring at the city lights. "Braeden will be there."

"Are you ready?"

"I was born ready," Ivy said.

In the Maybach, Auguste received a text from the family psychiatrist.

Ara needs a maternal figure for her therapy to progress. The attachment disorder is worsening.

Auguste looked at his sleeping daughter.

"I will find her," he vowed silently. "And I will keep her."