Million Dollar Devil

23.

I smooth my hands down the fabric of my dress, trying to quiet the flutter rising in my chest. It's just a work dinner. That's what I tell myself. Investors. Strategy. Decks and deliverables. I'm just the assistant. A glorified calendar wrangler in heels.

I slip my room key into my clutch and take one last glance at the suite before heading out. It's almost ridiculous, this space, the view, the chilled champagne I haven't touched. It all feels borrowed. Temporary. Like the second I leave, someone will realize I don't belong here and take it all back. 

The elevator hums down in silence, and I practice breathing like a normal person. When the doors open, I step into the hotel bar and immediately forget how to be one.

The bar is as stunning as the lobby, candlelight flickers on every table. A piano hums something slow and expensive, the sound floats across the room paired with the sound of clinking glasses and laughter. Deals being made over Negronis and pressed linen napkins.

I spot him almost instantly. Tall, brooding, looks like he walked out of a GQ editorial but hasn't slept in two days. He stands at the far end of the bar, half-turned toward a small circle of men in tailored suits. One hand tucked into his pocket, the other wrapped around a short glass, bourbon I bet. His jacket's back on now, crisp and fitted, but the collar of his shirt is still undone. He listens intently as one of the men speaks, nodding once, offering a short comment in return.

He looks entirely at ease, the picture of effortless authority, like he's always belonged in rooms like this. Like he doesn't even realize the way people shift toward him when he speaks. He's the guy they build the room around.

I hover at the edge of the bar, breath catching in my throat as I scan the room. The warmth from the candlelight pools around me, casting everything in soft liquid gold. I move slowly, my heels clicking in a confident rhythm that doesn't quite match the way my pulse quickens. Heads turn. Not dramatically. Just enough for me to feel the shift.

Across the room, Mr. Hayes lifts his gaze and then his eyes find mine.

The conversation around him continues, but he holds my gaze. His expression doesn't change, doesn't give anything away, and yet I feel the air between us tighten like a wire. Even as he lifts his bourbon and takes a slow sip, responding to something the man beside him says, his eyes are glued to my figure as I make my way through the crowd.

He tilts his head slightly. A slow, deliberate nod. It's a subtle but unmistakable Come here.

I cross the remaining distance but as I walk all I can think is Don't trip. Don't trip. Dear god, don't trip. 

I stop just beside him, waiting, unsure if I should interrupt."Gentlemen," he says, "this is my assistant, Lillian."

He turns to me, eyes catching mine again with something unreadable in them. "She keeps me from losing my mind."

I offer a polite smile, trying to keep my expression composed as five pairs of eyes turn toward me.

The group is an assortment, one older, with salt-and-pepper hair and a Rolex that glints obnoxiously under the low lights. Another, younger, all charm and white teeth, leaning forward like he's already interested. The rest sit somewhere in between handsome and rich.

They greet me with nods and handshakes, some offering names I immediately forget, others giving me the kind of once-over that feels less like a greeting and more like an appraisal. Their smiles are polite, but practiced. One of them holds my hand a beat too long. Another lets his eyes dip, just briefly, tracing the line of my dress before flicking back to my face like nothing happened.