Le Bernardin was quiet, a temple of seafood and silence. Colette sat at a corner table, wearing a black dress she had borrowed from her friend Zoe. It was a size too big, pinned at the back with safety pins.
She checked her phone. 7:15 PM.
Waiters glided past her like ghosts, their eyes sliding over her as if she were a stain on the tablecloth. She clutched her water glass, her fingers leaving smudges on the crystal. She felt like she was waiting for an executioner.
"Miss," a waiter said, stopping at her table. His nose was wrinkled. "If your party isn't arriving, we will need this table."
"He's coming," Colette said, her voice sounding thin. "Mr. Gorsky."
The waiter's eyebrows shot up. "Mr. Gorsky? Very well." He retreated, but the judgment remained.
Suddenly, the air in the room changed. The low hum of conversation stopped. The maître d' rushed toward the entrance, bowing so low he nearly headbutted the floor.
A man walked in.
He didn't walk; he prowled. He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a suit that absorbed the light. He moved with an arrogance that sucked the oxygen out of the room.
Colette kept her head down, staring at the white tablecloth. She couldn't bear to look at Gorsky's face. She just wanted this to be over.
A pair of polished black shoes stopped in her peripheral vision.
Colette took a deep breath, forced a smile onto her face, and looked up. "Mr. Gorsky, I-"
The words died in her throat.
It wasn't Gorsky.
It was him. The escort. The man from the hotel.
He looked even more terrifying in a suit. His eyes were dark, intelligent, and currently fixed on her with laser intensity.
August pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down. "Gorsky isn't coming."
Colette's mouth fell open. "You... did Gorsky hire you too? To... soften the blow?"
August paused in the middle of unfolding his napkin. He looked at her, really looked at her, as if trying to decipher a complex equation written in crayon.
"Miss Barrett," he said, his voice deep and smooth like bourbon. "Your imagination is truly something."
Colette leaned across the table, hissing. "Listen to me. You need to leave. If Gorsky sees me with another... service provider... he won't pay. And I need the money. Please."
August stared at her. She was worried about him. She thought he was competition.
He placed a folder on the table. "Boris Gorsky is currently being escorted out of his penthouse by federal agents. Tax fraud. It's on the news."
Colette blinked. "What?"
"He's not coming," August repeated. "I am."
"You?" Colette laughed, a hysterical, bubbling sound. "What are you going to do? Buy me dinner with my hundred dollars?"
August's jaw tightened. He signaled a waiter. "Caviar. The Reserve. And a bottle of the '96 Salon."
The waiter scrambled to obey.
August turned back to her. "I don't want to buy you dinner, Colette. I want to buy your time. Specifically, one year of it."
"I don't understand," Colette said, her head spinning.
"My board requires... stability. You require a lifeline," August said flatly. "Consider this a merger, Miss Barrett, not a romance. I need a wife. You need money. It's a simple transaction."
Colette stared at him. "A wife? For what? A green card?" She looked him over. He sounded American. "Are you... are you on the run?"
August closed his eyes for a brief second, praying for patience. "I am not an illegal immigrant. I am a businessman."
"You're a gigolo," Colette whispered.
August reached into his pocket. He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and slid it across the tablecloth toward her.
"Look at it."
Colette looked. It was a banking app. But it wasn't a personal account. It was a transfer confirmation.
Recipient: New York-Presbyterian Hospital.
Patient: Richard Barrett.
Amount: $500,000.00.
Status: PAID.
Colette stopped breathing. The numbers swam before her eyes. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with shock.
"Who are you?" she breathed.
"The man who just bought your debt," August said. "Now, eat your caviar. We have a contract to sign."
