The gallery was breathtaking.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Manhattan skyline, the city glittering like scattered diamonds against black velvet. The space itself was minimal, white walls and polished concrete floors, designed to let the art breathe.

And the art was extraordinary.

A massive Rothko dominated one wall, blocks of deep crimson and orange that seemed to pulse with their own light. Beside it, a Pollock exploded in controlled chaos, black and white splatters frozen in motion.

But it was the sculpture in the center of the room that stopped me cold.

Two figures, bronze and intertwined, caught in a moment of desperate intimacy. Their bodies pressed together, limbs tangled, faces hidden in each other's necks. The craftsmanship was exquisite, every muscle defined, every curve deliberate. It was beautiful and raw and profoundly erotic.

"That's 'Dissolution' by Philip Owen," Xander said, coming to stand beside me. "He's relatively unknown, but I think he's brilliant."

"It's..." I couldn't find the words. The sculpture radiated hunger. Not just physical desire but emotional need, two people trying to lose themselves in each other.

"Honest?" Xander supplied.

"Yes. Honest."

We stood there in silence, both staring at the bronze figures. The air between us felt charged, electric. I was acutely aware of how close he was standing. Close enough that I could smell his cologne. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body.

"What do you see when you look at it?" Xander asked, his voice low.

"Two people trying to forget."

"Forget what?"

"Everything. Who they are. What they've lost. The world outside." I swallowed hard. "Using each other as an escape."

"Is that what you want? To escape?"

I turned to look at him. His eyes were dark, pupils dilated. The intensity from earlier had returned, but now it was laced with something else. Something dangerous.

"Yes," I whispered.

"From what?"

"Everything. My life. My failure. The weight of being me." The martinis had loosened something inside me. Or maybe it was him. Maybe it was the way he looked at me like I was a puzzle worth solving. "I'm so tired of carrying it all."

"Then put it down."

"I don't know how."

"Yes, you do." He stepped closer. Not touching, but close enough that the air between us disappeared. "You know exactly how. You're just afraid to take it."

My heart was hammering. "Take what?"

"What you need."

The sculpture seemed to pulse in my peripheral vision. Two bodies tangled together, seeking oblivion.

"I don't know what I need," I said.

"Liar." His hand came up slowly, giving me time to move away. I didn't. His fingers brushed my cheek, feather-light. "You need to stop thinking. Stop carrying. Stop being the good girl who does everything right and still gets destroyed."

"And how do I do something like this?"

"You let go."

His thumb traced my lower lip. The touch sent fire through my veins.

"Xander-"

"Tell me to stop." His voice was rough. "Tell me you don't want this and I'll take you back downstairs. We'll forget this happened."

But I didn't want to forget. For the first time in weeks, I felt something other than pain. I felt alive. I felt wanted. I felt like someone other than the girl who'd lost everything.

"I don't want you to stop."

The words had barely left my mouth before his lips were on mine.

The kiss was nothing like Leo's careful, controlled affection. This was hunger. Raw and desperate and consuming. Xander's hand tangled in my hair, tilting my head back as he deepened the kiss. His other hand found my waist, pulling me against him.

I gasped against his mouth and he took advantage, his tongue sliding against mine. The taste of gin and something darker, something uniquely him. My hands found his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the expensive shirt.

He walked me backward until my back hit the cool glass of the window. The city sprawled below us, millions of lights and lives, but all I could feel was him. His body pressed against mine. His mouth moving from my lips to my jaw to the sensitive spot below my ear.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he breathed against my neck.

"Don't stop."

His hands slid down my sides, mapping the curves of Maya's borrowed dress. When he reached my thighs, he gripped them, lifting me effortlessly. I wrapped my legs around his waist, gasping at the friction, at the hardness I could feel pressing against me.

"Not here," he said, his voice strained. "Come home with me."

"Where?"

"The Peninsula. I have a suite."

I should have said no. Should have pulled away, straightened my dress, returned to Maya and the safety of making good decisions.

But I was so tired of good decisions.

Good decisions had given me Leo. Had given me a career that imploded. Had given me a life where I tried to be perfect and ended up with nothing.

"Yes," I said.

Xander set me down gently, but kept one hand on my waist like he was afraid I'd disappear. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

He pulled out his phone, typing something quickly. "My car will be downstairs in two minutes."

We took the elevator down. The descent felt both too fast and agonizingly slow. Xander stood close but didn't touch me, like he was giving me space to change my mind. But I could feel his eyes on me, burning.

The main floor of The Vault was still pulsing with music and bodies. Maya spotted us immediately, rushing over.

"Di, are you okay? Where did you go? I was about to-" She stopped, taking in my flushed face, my swollen lips, the way Xander's hand rested possessively on my lower back. "Oh."

"I'm going with him," I said.

"Diana-"

"I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?" Maya grabbed my hand, pulling me aside. Xander stepped back, giving us privacy. "Di, you just met him. You don't know anything about him. This isn't like you."

"Exactly. Being like me got me nowhere. Maybe it's time to be someone else."

"This is the alcohol talking."

"Most likely. Or maybe it's me finally doing something I want instead of something I should." I squeezed her hand. "I'll be careful. I promise."

"Text me when you get there. And in the morning. And if anything feels wrong, call me immediately and I'll come get you."

"I will."

I hugged her, then returned to Xander. His expression was unreadable.

"Your friend is right to worry," he said as we walked toward the exit. "You don't know me."

"Do you want me to change my mind?"

"No. But I want you to be certain."

I stopped, forcing him to look at me. "I'm certain I want to forget tonight. I'm certain I want to feel something other than miserable. I'm certain I want you. Is something like this enough?"

His eyes darkened. "More than enough."

A black car waited outside, sleek and expensive. The driver opened the door and we slid into the back seat. The privacy screen was already up.

The moment the door closed, Xander pulled me onto his lap. His mouth found mine again, hungrier this time, less controlled. My dress rode up as I straddled him, silk pooling around my hips.

His hands roamed my back, found the zipper of the dress. "Can I?"

"Yes."

He pulled the zipper down slowly, the sound loud in the quiet car. The dress loosened, and I shrugged it off my shoulders, letting it pool at my waist. I wasn't wearing a bra under the dress. Hadn't needed one with the fitted bodice.

Xander's breath caught. His hands came up to cup my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples. The sensation shot straight through me and I arched into his touch.

"Beautiful," he murmured, before lowering his head to take one nipple into his mouth.

I gasped, my hands fisting in his hair. He sucked and licked and bit gently, giving the same attention to each breast until I was grinding against him, desperate for more friction.

His hand slid between us, pushing aside the silk of my underwear. When his fingers found me, slick and ready, he groaned.

"So wet already."

"Please."

"Please what?"

"Touch me."

He did, his fingers circling and stroking with maddening precision. I buried my face in his neck, trying to muffle my moans as he built the pressure higher and higher.

"Don't hide," he commanded. "I want to hear you."

His thumb found my most sensitive spot and pressed, and I shattered. The orgasm crashed through me, leaving me shaking and gasping in his arms.

"We're here, Mr. Lockwood," the driver's voice came through the intercom, carefully neutral.

I scrambled off Xander's lap, pulling my dress back up. My face burned with embarrassment. The driver had definitely heard.

Xander seemed completely unbothered. He helped me zip the dress, then pressed a kiss to my shoulder. "Come."

The Peninsula was understated elegance. We crossed the lobby quickly, Xander's hand on my lower back, guiding me to a private elevator. He swiped a key card and pressed the button for the top floor.

The moment the doors closed, we were on each other again. Xander pinned me against the wall, his thigh pressed between my legs as we kissed with desperate intensity.

The elevator stopped. We stumbled out into a private hallway. Only one door. Xander fumbled with the key card, finally getting it open.

The penthouse was stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows, modern furniture, a view of Central Park lit up in the darkness. But I barely registered any of it because Xander was already unzipping my dress again, sliding it down my body.

I stood before him in nothing but heels and a scrap of lace underwear.

"Bedroom," he said, his voice rough.

"Where?"

He lifted me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carried me through the suite. The bedroom was dominated by a massive bed, white sheets and too many pillows. He set me down gently on the edge.

Then he stepped back, loosening his tie.

I watched as he undressed. The tie first, then the shirt, revealing a body of hard muscle and smooth skin. He was beautiful in a way models were beautiful, all lean strength and perfect proportions.

When he reached for his belt, I stood. "Let me."

My hands were shaking as I unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants. I pushed them down along with his underwear and he stepped out of them.

He was hard, impressive, and the sight of him made my mouth go dry.

"Your turn," he said, reaching for my underwear. He slid the lace down my legs and I stepped out of it, completely bare except for the heels.

"Leave those on," he said.

He walked me backward until my knees hit the bed. I fell back and he followed, covering my body with his. The feeling of skin on skin, nothing between us, was overwhelming.

"Tell me what you like," he said, kissing down my neck.

"I don't know."

He pulled back, looking at me. "You don't know?"

"Leo was... conventional. Missionary. Lights off. Quick."

Something dark flashed in Xander's eyes. "Then we're going to find out what you like."

He kissed his way down my body, paying attention to every sensitive spot. Behind my ear. The hollow of my throat. The curve of my breast. The soft skin of my inner thigh.

When his mouth finally found me, I cried out. Nothing had ever felt like this. His tongue moved with the same precision as his fingers in the car, but the sensation was entirely different. Wetter. Hotter. More intense.

He used his fingers too, sliding them inside me while his mouth worked my most sensitive spot. The combination was devastating. I gripped the sheets, my hips lifting to meet him as he pushed me higher and higher.

"Xander, I'm going to-"

"Come for me, Diana."

I shattered again, the orgasm even more powerful than the first. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed through me until I was shaking and gasping his name.

He kissed his way back up my body, settling between my legs. I could feel him, hard and ready, pressing against me.

"Condom," he said, reaching for the nightstand.

I watched as he rolled it on, then positioned himself at my entrance. He pushed in slowly, giving me time to adjust. The stretch was intense, almost too much, but not painful.

"Okay?" he asked, his control clearly costing him.

"Yes. Move."

He did, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in. The rhythm was slow at first, measured, but as I met each thrust with my own movement, it became faster. Harder. More desperate.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, taking him deeper. He groaned, burying his face in my neck as he moved. One hand found my breast, kneading and pinching. The other slid between us, finding where we were joined.

The dual sensation was too much. I came again, clenching around him, and he followed moments later with a guttural moan of my name.

We lay tangled together, breathing hard. Sweat cooled on our skin. The city glittered outside the windows, oblivious to what had just happened in this room.

Xander shifted, pulling out carefully and disposing of the condom. Then he returned, pulling me against his chest.

We lay in silence for a while. His hand traced lazy patterns on my back. Outside, sirens wailed. Inside, I felt something I hadn't felt in weeks.

Peace.

"What are you thinking?" Xander asked.

"I'm not thinking. For the first time in weeks, my brain is quiet."

"Is this what you needed?"

"Yes." I tilted my head to look at him. "Was this what you needed?"

"I needed to see if you felt as good as I imagined."

"And?"

"Better."

He kissed me again, slow and deep. His hands roamed my body, relearning curves he'd already memorized. The kiss deepened, grew more heated.

I felt him hardening against my hip.

"Again?" I asked.

"If you want."

I did want. I wanted to lose myself in sensation. Wanted to forget who I was and what had happened to me. Wanted to be someone new, someone who took what she wanted without apology.

"Yes," I said. "Again."

This time was slower. He took his time exploring my body, finding spots I didn't know were sensitive. Behind my knee. The small of my back. The curve where my neck met my shoulder.

He positioned me on my hands and knees, entering me from behind. The angle was different, deeper, hitting spots the first time hadn't reached. His hand fisted in my hair, not painfully, but possessively.

"Is this okay?" he asked.

"Yes. God, yes."

He moved with controlled power, each thrust deliberate. His other hand reached around, finding where I needed him most. The combination of sensations built to an impossible peak.

When I came this time, I screamed. The sound was raw, primal, nothing like the quiet gasps Leo had coaxed from me.

Xander followed, his grip tightening on my hips as he shuddered through his own release.

We collapsed onto the bed, limbs tangled. My body felt liquid, every muscle relaxed in a way I hadn't experienced in years.

"Water?" Xander asked.

"Please."

He returned with two bottles, and we drank in comfortable silence. The sheets were a mess, tangled and damp. Neither of us cared.

"I should let you sleep," he said.

"I'm not tired."

"Neither am I."

His hand slid up my thigh, possessive and exploring. My body responded immediately, warming to his touch despite having just been thoroughly satisfied.

"How many times can you go?" I asked.

"With you? Let's find out."

The night blurred into sensation. His mouth on my body. My nails down his back. The slide of skin on skin. The sound of our breathing, our moans, our whispered encouragements.

We explored each other with the freedom of strangers who owed each other nothing. No expectations. No history. No future.

Just now.

By the time exhaustion finally claimed us, the sky outside was lightening with the first hints of dawn. We lay wrapped around each other, skin cooling, breathing synchronized.

"Diana," Xander murmured, already half asleep.

"Mm?"

"I hope I made you forget everything."

"You did."

I meant it. In this moment, tangled in expensive sheets with a man I barely knew, I meant it.

For now, Diana Pembroke had found her escape.

And it had been worth every dangerous choice.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

I woke to sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows and the unfamiliar weight of an arm draped across my waist.

For a moment, I couldn't remember where I was. Then it all came rushing back. The Vault. The gallery. The sculpture. Xander.

Oh God. Xander.

I turned my head carefully. He was still asleep, his face relaxed in a way it hadn't been last night. Without the intensity of his gaze, he looked younger. Almost vulnerable.

My body ached in places I'd forgotten could ache. Pleasant soreness, the kind that came from being thoroughly used. The sheets were tangled around our legs, and I could see marks on my skin. Bruises on my hips where his fingers had gripped. A faint bite mark on my shoulder.

Evidence of what we'd done.

Multiple times.

My face burned with a mixture of embarrassment and something else. Something I didn't want to examine too closely.

I needed to leave. Now. Before this became something complicated. Before he woke up and we had to have the awkward morning-after conversation.

What was this? What are we doing? Should we exchange numbers?

No. This had been exactly what I needed. One night of forgetting. Of feeling something other than misery. Of being someone other than Diana Pembroke, disgraced events manager.

But it couldn't be more than this.

I carefully extracted myself from his arm, holding my breath when he shifted slightly. But he didn't wake. Just rolled onto his back, one arm flung above his head.

I slid out of bed as quietly as possible, my feet sinking into plush carpet. My dress was somewhere in the living room. My underwear scattered across the bedroom floor. My shoes by the bed.

I gathered my clothes quickly, moving like a thief. Which was ironic, considering what I'd been accused of.

In the bathroom, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and froze.

I looked destroyed. Makeup smeared. Hair a tangled mess. Lips swollen. The bite mark on my shoulder visible above the neckline of Maya's dress. And my eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep but also something else.

They looked alive.

For the first time in weeks, I looked like a person instead of a ghost.

I cleaned up as best I could with a washcloth. Fixed my hair into something approximating presentable. There was nothing I could do about the dress, wrinkled beyond redemption, or the unmistakable look of someone who'd spent the night having sex.

Maya was going to have questions.

I slipped back into the bedroom. Xander was still asleep, his breathing deep and even. For a moment, I stood watching him, this stranger who'd made me forget, who'd seen my rage and my need and matched both with his own intensity.

I should leave a note. Something. But what would I say?

Thank you for the best sex of my life?

Last night was a glorious mistake?

Please don't call me because I can't afford complications?

In the end, I left nothing. I grabbed my clutch from the nightstand where I'd dropped it at some point during the night. The business card he'd given me at The Vault was still inside.

I should throw it away.

I slipped it into an inner pocket instead.

The penthouse was silent except for the hum of the air conditioning. I let myself out quietly, closing the door with barely a click.

The elevator ride down felt eternal. I kept expecting someone to stop me, to ask what I was doing leaving a penthouse suite at seven in the morning wearing last night's clothes. But the lobby was mostly empty. Just staff moving quietly, preparing for the day.

I walked out into the bright morning, immediately regretting the heels. My feet screamed with every step. I pulled out my phone and ordered a car, waiting on the corner like someone doing the world's most obvious walk of shame.

The driver who picked me up was mercifully silent. I slumped in the back seat, exhaustion crashing over me now that the adrenaline of escape had faded.

What had I done?

I'd slept with a stranger. Multiple times. In ways I'd never slept with Leo in three years of being together.

And I'd liked it.

More than liked it. I'd craved it. Every touch, every kiss, every moment of losing myself in sensation instead of thought.

But it couldn't happen again. Men like Xander Lockwood didn't want women like me beyond a single night of entertainment. And I couldn't afford distractions. I needed to focus on rebuilding my life, finding a job, proving I wasn't a thief.

Last night had been an escape. A beautiful, necessary escape.

But now it was morning, and reality was waiting.

The car dropped me at Maya's building. I climbed the three flights of stairs slowly, dreading the interrogation waiting for me.

Maya was awake, sitting on the couch with coffee and her laptop. She looked up when I walked in, and her eyes went wide.

"Oh my God."

"Don't."

"Diana. You look like you got hit by a sex truck."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Too bad. We're talking about it. Sit." She patted the couch beside her. "Coffee first. Then details."

I collapsed onto the couch, accepting the mug she thrust at me. The coffee was strong and hot and exactly what I needed.

"Did you at least text me like you promised?" Maya asked.

I checked my phone. Dead battery. "My phone died."

"Diana."

"I'm fine. I'm here. I'm alive. Nothing bad happened."

"Except you had sex with a billionaire you met six hours ago."

"I needed to forget for a while. He helped me forget."

Maya studied my face. "Was it good?"

Despite everything, I felt myself smiling. "It was incredible."

"Okay. Okay, I can work with incredible. Are you seeing him again?"

"No."

"No? Di, the man looked at you like you were the only person in the room. And clearly the sex was good. Why not see where it goes?"

"Because I don't have the bandwidth for complicated right now. I need to focus on finding a job. Rebuilding my reputation. Getting my life back on track."

"Or, hear me out, you could let yourself have something good for once."

"Good things don't happen to me, Maya. Good things get taken away. Leo. My job. Everything." I set down the coffee. "Last night was perfect because it was one night. No expectations. No promises. No disappointments. I'm not ruining it by trying to make it more."

Maya looked like she wanted to argue, but she just sighed. "Fine. But for the record, I think you're making a mistake."

"Add it to the list."

I showered, washing away the evidence of the night. The hot water stung the bite mark on my shoulder, and I found myself touching it gently, remembering.

Then I forced myself to stop remembering.

I needed to move forward, not backward.

After the shower, I changed into comfortable clothes. Top. Jeans. Hair in a neat bun. Makeup carefully applied to hide the exhaustion. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw Diana Pembroke, events manager.

Not Diana Pembroke, woman who'd spent the night screaming a stranger's name.

I spent the rest of the morning on my laptop, applying to every job I could find. Event coordinator at a hotel chain. Catering manager for a corporate firm. Wedding planner assistant at a boutique agency.

By noon, I had fifteen applications submitted.

By two, I had three rejection emails.

By five, I had twelve.

Thank you for your interest, but we've decided to move forward with other candidates.

We appreciate your application, but your qualifications don't match our current needs.

After careful consideration, we've decided not to proceed with your candidacy.

The rejections all said different things, but they meant the same thing: We heard about Veridian. We don't hire thieves.

"Nothing?" Maya asked, looking over my shoulder.

"Nothing. It's like I've been blacklisted industry-wide."

"Have you tried reaching out to former clients? Someone who knows your work?"

"And say what? 'Hi, remember how I managed your perfect wedding? Please ignore the theft allegations and hire me?'"

Maya winced. "Okay, maybe not. What about something outside events? You have transferable skills. Project management. Client relations. Budgeting."

"I've been applying to those too. Same result."

My phone buzzed. Another rejection email. This one from a position I'd been excited about. Events director at a museum. Perfect blend of culture and logistics.

We regret to inform you...

I closed my laptop before I threw it across the room.

"I need air. I'm going for a walk."

"Di-"

"I'll be fine. I just need to clear my head."

I grabbed my jacket and walked out before Maya could stop me. The afternoon was cool, autumn settling over the city. I walked without direction, letting my feet carry me through Brooklyn streets.

Former colleagues passed on the other side of the street. I recognized a woman I'd worked with on the Morrison gala, the one before everything went wrong. She saw me, and her eyes widened. Then she quickly looked away, pretending she hadn't seen me.

The message was clear. I was tainted. Toxic. Someone to avoid.

I found myself in Prospect Park, sitting on a bench watching people jog and walk dogs and push strollers. Normal people living normal lives, unburdened by scandal and shame.

My phone buzzed again. I almost didn't check it, assuming another rejection.

But it wasn't a rejection. It was a text from an unknown number.

"You left without saying goodbye."

My heart stopped.

Xander.

I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I should delete it. Block the number. Maintain the boundary I'd set this morning when I snuck out.

But I found myself typing instead. "I didn't want to wake you."

The response came immediately.

Xander: "I would have appreciated the chance to make you breakfast."

Me: "I needed to get home."

Xander: "Or you needed to run."

The observation was too accurate, too sharp. Just like everything else about him.

Me: "It was one night. A good night. But one night."

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

Xander: "If you say so."

Me: "I do."

Xander: "Then I won't bother you again. But Diana, for what it's worth, I don't regret last night. I hope you don't either."

I stared at the message. I should tell him I did regret it. Should lie and create distance and make sure this ended cleanly.

"I don't regret it," I typed. "But it can't happen again."

Xander: "Understood. Take care of yourself, Diana Pembroke."

The conversation ended. No arguing. No trying to convince me otherwise. Just acceptance.

Which was exactly what I wanted.

So why did it feel like losing something I'd barely had a chance to hold?

I walked back to Maya's apartment as the sun set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. My phone stayed silent. No more texts from Xander. No more rejection emails.

Just silence.

Back at the apartment, Maya had ordered Pizza. We ate while watching trashy reality TV and not talking about the fact my life was a disaster.

"Tomorrow will be better," Maya said, though she didn't sound convinced.

"Tomorrow I'll keep applying. Someone will give me a chance eventually."

"What if they don't?"

"Then I'll figure something else out. I always do."

But lying in Maya's guest bed that night, staring at the ceiling, I wondered if I was lying. I'd always had a plan. Always had structure. Always knew the next step.

Now I had nothing. No job. No prospects. No path forward.

Just the memory of one perfect night when I'd forgotten to be broken.

And the business card still tucked in my clutch, a reminder of the man who'd made me feel alive.

I fell asleep thinking about gray-green eyes and the way he'd said my name like it was something precious.

Fell asleep telling myself I'd made the right choice.

Fell asleep trying to believe tomorrow would be different.

But deep down, I knew the truth.

Nothing was going to change until I changed it myself.

And I had no idea how to do something like this anymore.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

A week passed in a blur of rejections and silence.

Twenty-three applications sent. Twenty-three rejections received. The responses came faster now, as if my name had been flagged in some industry-wide database. Unemployable. Do not hire.

I'd stopped checking L******n after seeing my former colleagues posting about successful events at Veridian, carefully avoiding any mention of me. Simone had been promoted to senior events manager. My position. My title. Given to the woman who'd waited like a vulture for me to fall.

The money situation was becoming critical. My checking account had dwindled to four hundred dollars. Maya kept saying I didn't need to worry about rent, but I saw the way she looked at her own bills. Her art sales were inconsistent. She couldn't afford to support both of us indefinitely.

I'd applied for unemployment. For food service positions. For retail jobs. Anything to stop the bleeding.

Nothing.

Even a coffee shop had rejected me. Apparently, being accused of theft made you unsuitable for handling a cash register.

I spent my days on the couch with my laptop, sending résumés into the void. My nights were restless, filled with dreams of bronze sculptures and gray-green eyes and the way Xander had said my name.

I hadn't heard from him since that text in the park. Hadn't expected to. We'd both agreed it was one night. A perfect, isolated incident filed away under "glorious mistakes."

So when someone knocked on Maya's door at seven on a Tuesday evening, I didn't think twice about answering it.

Maya was in the shower. I was in sweatpants and one of her oversized shirts, hair in a messy bun, no makeup. The epitome of someone who'd given up on appearances.

I opened the door.

Xander Lockwood stood in the hallway.

He looked exactly as I remembered. Expensive suit, perfectly tailored. Dark hair styled with casual precision. Those eyes that saw too much. But there was something different about his expression. More serious. More calculated.

This wasn't a social call.

"Hello, Diana."

My mouth opened. Closed. No sound came out.

"May I come in?"

"I... how did you find me?"

"You told me you were staying with your friend Maya in Brooklyn. There are only so many Maya Rossis in the borough who are artists. The rest was simple research."

Simple research. Right. Because tracking down someone's address was normal behavior.

"What are you doing here?"

"I have a proposition for you. May I come in, or would you prefer to have this conversation in the hallway?"

My brain finally caught up. "Maya is home."

"Good. I'd prefer a witness for this conversation anyway."

He walked past me into the apartment before I could protest. I stood frozen for a moment, then closed the door and followed.

Xander surveyed the small space with the same analytical gaze he'd turned on me at The Vault. Taking in the canvases stacked against the walls. The mismatched furniture. The life Maya had built on passion and perseverance.

"This is cozy," he said.

"It's small."

"I said cozy, not small." He turned to face me, and the intensity in his eyes made my breath catch. "How have you been?"

"How have I been? You show up unannounced at my friend's apartment after a week of silence and want to make small talk?"

"Fair point." He set his briefcase on the coffee table. "Is there somewhere we can sit?"

The bathroom door opened before I could answer. Maya emerged in a cloud of steam, wrapped in a robe, hair dripping. She stopped dead when she saw Xander.

"What the hell?"

"Maya Rossi, I presume. I'm Alexander Lockwood. We met briefly at The Vault." He extended his hand.

Maya stared at it like it might bite her. "I know who you are. What I don't know is why you're in my apartment."

"I'm here to make Diana an offer."

"An offer." Maya looked at me, then back at him. "What kind of offer?"

"The kind I'd prefer to discuss while sitting down." His tone was polite but firm. A man accustomed to being obeyed.

Maya gestured stiffly to the couch. "Fine. Sit. But if this gets weird, you're leaving."

We all sat. Xander in the armchair, projecting calm authority. Maya and I on the couch, a united front of suspicion.

Xander opened his briefcase with deliberate precision. The click of the latches was loud in the quiet apartment. He reached inside and pulled out a leather-bound folder, thick with papers, the kind of document lawyers spent hours drafting.

He set it on the coffee table between us.

The leather was expensive, embossed with gold lettering I couldn't quite read from where I sat. It looked official. Legal. The kind of document changed lives.

"What is this?" Maya asked.

Xander didn't answer her. He looked at me. Only at me.

His gray-green eyes locked onto mine with an intensity made my heart hammer against my ribs. He leaned back in the chair, fingers steepled under his chin. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Then he leaned forward, pushing the leather folder across the coffee table until it rested directly in front of me.

"Diana Pembroke," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "I want you to be my wife."​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​