I gave Landon the short version. He slapped me on the back so hard I stumbled forward.
"What?! A million dollars? You lucky bastard!"
I smiled, but there was no humor in it. "Landon, you call that lucky? She's somebody's wife!"
He waved me off like I'd just complained about free beer. "So what if she's somebody's wife? You think a man at that level is short on women?"
Then he caught himself and jabbed a finger at my chest. "But let me warn you right now. Don't go digging around where you shouldn't. You'll get burned."
I nodded mechanically, then made up an excuse about feeling sick and asked for the rest of the night off.
Back at my apartment, I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the photograph. The woman looked about my age. I couldn't stop turning it over in my mind.
Everyone in the industry called me the king of hosts, but in all my years working the nightclub scene, I'd never crossed the line. I poured drinks, played flirty little party games, kept the clients entertained. That was it.
This time was different.
Even if I was willing to sell my body, how the hell was I supposed to make this woman fall for me and sleep with me in such a short window?
I didn't sleep that night.
Early the next morning, the client had someone deliver a thick dossier.
The woman's last name was Fletcher. Twenty-seven years old. Recently returned from studying abroad. Her social circle was practically nonexistent. Other than the occasional trip out for coffee, she had no hobbies, no habits, nothing to latch onto.
At the very end, the client had written a single line in red ink:
"Extremely guarded. Will not trust anyone easily."
I frowned without realizing it.
The wealthy wives I'd dealt with at the nightclub all had a way in. Some were lonely. Some had physical needs their husbands weren't meeting. Others just wanted someone to make them feel something. There was always a crack in the armor.
But this woman was different. She'd sealed herself off on purpose.
There was no way in.
I stared at the photograph for a long time.
Finally, I decided to try my luck at the café she visited most often.
Whether it was fate or dumb coincidence, she actually showed up.
She walked through the door, swept the room with a single glance, and then came straight to my table and sat down.
"My husband sent you, didn't he?"
I froze. My eyes went wide before I could stop them.
She didn't seem bothered. She flagged down a server and ordered two coffees, one for each of us.
"A man dressed the way you are wouldn't set foot in a place like this."
I looked around. Every other seat was occupied by someone in business attire, a laptop open in front of them. The casual outfit I'd so carefully picked out stuck out like a sore thumb.
"Ms. Fletcher, if you already know why I'm here, why did you sit down?"
There was an edge in my voice I didn't bother hiding.
She only smiled, faint and unbothered. "I was curious. I wanted to see what kind of man my husband handpicked. What makes him so special."
Her eyes drifted over me, slow and appraising, head to toe. A soft laugh escaped her lips.
"Turns out, nothing much."
I'd always figured I was decent-looking. Maybe not movie-star material, but you didn't get to the top of the hosting game with a forgettable face.
And now this woman, this beautiful woman, was looking me dead in the eye and telling me I was nothing.
I couldn't swallow that.
But the second I opened my mouth, she cut me off with a question that shifted the entire conversation.
"What exactly did my husband send you to do?"
I was already running hot. The words came out before I could filter them.
"Make you fall in love with me. And sleep with me."
She didn't look surprised. She picked up her coffee, took a slow, delicate sip, and said nothing.
