The man beside him ordered for the table.
Cora wrote it down without really hearing it. Three bottles of wine she'd need to look up the pronunciation for. Appetizers. Steaks, rare, all of them. Her pen moved on autopilot while her pulse did something strange and uneven.
She could feel him watching her.
Every time she glanced up, those pale eyes were there. Tracking her movements the way a predator tracks motion in tall grass.
She'd served powerful men before. Rich men. Men who thought the world owed them something. This was different.Those men wanted to be seen, wanted her to notice their watches and their suits and their loud, important conversations.
He knew what he was.
"That's all."
The voice came from the man who'd ordered. Cora blinked, realized she'd been standing there too long, pen hovering over paper.
"Of course. I'll have the wine brought up right away."
She turned and walked toward the door.
His gaze followed her the whole way.
The kitchen was loud and hot and exactly what she needed.
Cora leaned against the wall by the service station, pressing her palms flat against the cool tile. Her heart was still doing that strange uneven thing. Her skin still prickled like she'd touched a live wire.
Get it together.
She grabbed the wine bottles Marco had set aside. Checked the labels twice. Loaded them onto a tray with glasses and headed back upstairs.
The conversation stopped when she entered.
Not gradually. Not a natural pause. It just stopped, mid-sentence, like someone had hit mute. Six men at the table, all of them turning to look at her with expressions that ranged from annoyed to something colder.
All except him.
He wasn't looking at her this time. He was looking at the man across from him. A shorter man, balding, sweat beading on his forehead despite the air conditioning. His hands were flat on the table like he was trying to keep them from shaking.
Cora moved to the bar. Opened the first bottle. Poured.
The silence pressed against her ears.
"Continue," the man at the head of the table said. His voice was low. Quiet. The kind of quiet that made people lean in to hear.
The sweating man swallowed. "I just— I'm saying the timeline was unrealistic. The shipment was delayed because of circumstances beyond—"
"Beyond your control."
"Yes. Exactly. Beyond my—"
"You've used that excuse before."
Cora poured the second bottle. Kept her eyes on the glasses. Kept her hands steady.
Don't look. Don't listen. Pour the drinks, serve the food, pretend you don't see anything.
Marco's warning echoed in her head.
"The circumstances," the sweating man continued, his voice climbing higher, "were completely—"
"You lost three million dollars of my product."
"Not lost. Delayed. It's being handled, I swear to you, by the end of the week—"
"You said that last week."
"I know, I know, but this time—"
"You also said it the week before."
The sweating man's mouth opened. Closed. His hands twitched on the table.
Cora finished pouring. She should leave. Put the bottles down and go back to the kitchen and wait for the food to be ready. That was the smart thing. That was the thing Marco had told her to do.
But the door was on the other side of the table. She'd have to walk past all of them to reach it.
She set the bottles on the bar. Slowly. Quietly.
"I have the money." The sweating man's voice cracked. "I can pay you back. Every cent. Just give me more time—"
"Time."
That single word. Soft. Almost thoughtful.
Then the man at the head of the table moved.
She didn't see him stand.
One second he was seated, still as stone. The next he was behind the sweating man, one hand fisted in his hair, yanking his head back so hard the chair scraped against the floor.
The sweating man made a sound. High and strangled, more animal than human.
Cora froze.
Move. Move. Get out. Get out now.
Her legs wouldn't obey.
"Time," the man said again, "is the one thing I don't sell."
His free hand moved. Something glinted in the candlelight. Short. Sharp. A blade she hadn't seen him draw.
He dragged it across the man's neck.
Not deep. Not enough to kill. Just enough to open the skin in a thin red line that spilled blood into the collar of his expensive shirt.
The sweating man screamed.
Nobody moved to help him. The guards by the door stood like statues. The other men at the table watched with expressions that ranged from bored to faintly nauseated, like they'd seen this before, like this was just another Tuesday.
Cora's tray slipped.
It didn't fall. She caught it, fingers scrambling against the edge, but the glasses rattled. Clinked together. A sound too loud in the silence after the scream.
His head turned.
Those pale eyes found her.
He released the bleeding man, letting him slump forward onto the table, sobbing into the white tablecloth that was turning red. The knife disappeared somewhere inside his jacket. He straightened his cuffs. Adjusted his watch.
Calm. Unhurried. Like he'd just signed a document instead of opened someone's throat.
Then he started walking toward her.
Cora's body finally listened.
She dropped the tray. Glasses shattered against the floor. Wine spread like a bloodstain across the hardwood. She didn't care. Didn't think. Just turned and ran for the door.
She made it three steps.
A hand closed around her arm. One of the guards. The big one who'd entered first. His grip was iron, fingers digging into her bicep hard enough to bruise.
"Let go of me." Her voice came out high. Wrong. "I won't say anything. I didn't see anything. Please, I just—"
"Bring her."
Two words. That low, quiet voice.
The guard dragged her backward. Her heels scraped against the floor. She thrashed, clawed at his hand, kicked at nothing. It didn't matter. He moved her like she weighed nothing.
The man with the pale eyes watched her struggle.
His expression didn't change.
"Please." She hated how it sounded. Hated the begging in her voice. "I don't know who you are. I don't know anything. Just let me go and I'll—"
Something pressed against her neck.
Cold. Sharp. A needle.
The room tilted.
Consciousness came back in pieces.
First, the smell. Clean. Too clean. Something floral underneath, faint, like expensive detergent or fresh sheets. Nothing like her apartment. Nothing like the mildew and the neighbor's cigarette smoke that seeped through the walls.
Then, the feel. Soft. Too soft. She was lying on something that gave beneath her weight, cradling her body in a way her mattress on the floor never had.
Her head throbbed. A dull, heavy ache behind her eyes that pulsed with every heartbeat.
What happened?
The question surfaced through the fog. She tried to grab onto it, tried to remember, but her thoughts kept sliding away like water through her fingers.
Work. I was at work. The Argent. The private room. The man with the—
Her eyes flew open.
White ceiling. High. Crown molding edged in gold. A chandelier hanging above her, crystal drops catching light from somewhere she couldn't see.
This wasn't her apartment.
This wasn't anywhere she'd ever been.
Cora sat up too fast. The room spun. Her stomach lurched and she pressed a hand to her mouth, swallowing hard against the nausea.
The needle. Something in her neck. The guard holding her up while she
She was going to be sick.
She didn't throw up.
Swallowed it down. Forced her breathing to slow. In through her nose, out through her mouth, the way she'd taught herself years ago when panic meant danger and danger meant pain.
The room came into focus.
Big. Bigger than her entire apartment. A wall of windows to her left, floor-to-ceiling glass looking out onto a forest she didn't recognize. Trees everywhere, dense and dark, stretching toward a sky that was either early morning or late evening, she couldn't tell.
The bed beneath her was massive. Four posts. White sheets that felt like silk. A thick duvet she'd kicked halfway off in her sleep. On either side, matching nightstands with lamps that looked like they belonged in a museum.
Across from the bed, a dresser. Dark wood, polished to a shine. A door beside it, cracked open enough to show a sliver of tile. Bathroom. Another door on the opposite wall. Closed. Heavy. That would be the way out.
Her shoes were gone. Her apron was gone. She was still in her work clothes, the black slacks and white button-down, but someone had undone the top two buttons. Her phone wasn't in her pocket. Her hair was loose around her shoulders.
Someone had touched her while she was unconscious.
The thought sent ice down her spine.
She swung her legs off the bed. Stood. Her knees wobbled but held. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet, some kind of stone, marble maybe. She crossed to the heavy door and tried the handle.
Locked.
She tried again. Pulled harder. Threw her shoulder against it.
Nothing.
The windows. She ran to them, pressed her palms against the glass. Cold. Thick. She looked down and her stomach dropped. Three stories, at least. Nothing but a sheer wall below, no ledges, no balconies, just a straight drop to a stone courtyard surrounded by more forest.
No way out.
She was trapped.
Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. She couldn't tell.
Cora paced the room until her feet ached. Checked the windows again. Tried the door again. Searched the dresser, the nightstands, the bathroom. Looking for something, anything, a weapon, a phone, a way out.
Nothing. The drawers were empty. The bathroom had towels, soap, a toothbrush still in its packaging. No razor. No scissors. Nothing sharp.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands shaking, mind racing in circles, when she heard it.
Footsteps. Quiet. Getting closer.
The lock clicked.
Cora shot to her feet. Her heart slammed against her ribs. The door swung inward and a woman stepped through, tall, blank-faced, carrying a silver tray with food and a glass of water. She moved with a strange, fluid grace.
Behind her, the hallway stretched open. Empty.
Cora didn't think.
She lunged.
Ducked past the woman, aiming for the gap between her body and the doorframe. Freedom was right there, inches away, she could make it, she could—
A hand closed around her arm.
The grip was iron. Inhuman. The woman didn't grunt, didn't strain, Cora's feet tangled. She hit the floor hard, the impact jarring through her spine, knocking the air from her lungs.
The door closed and the locked clicked
Cora lay on the marble, gasping, staring at the ceiling. Her arm throbbed where the woman had grabbed her. She could already feel the bruise forming.
How did she move that fast?
The question echoed in her skull. No answer came.
She pushed herself up. The tray sat on the table near the door, untouched. Food. Water. Her stomach cramped at the sight but she didn't move toward it.
Could be drugged. Could be poisoned. Could be anything.
She crawled back to the bed. Pulled herself onto it. Drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, making herself small.
The light outside the windows faded. The room sank into shadow.
She didn't sleep. Didn't eat. Just sat there, shaking, waiting for something worse to come.
It did.
Another sound. Footsteps again.
The lock clicked,The door swung open.
And he walked in.