Got You: The Billionaire's Little Liar

The icy wind of the Manhattan alleyway cut through Alya Klein's thin silk dress. She shivered violently, her teeth chattering as she pulled the stolen waiter's vest over her shoulders. The rough fabric scratched her bare skin, a stark contrast to the designer clothes she usually wore.

She buttoned up the black vest with trembling fingers. The topmost plastic button felt like ice against her skin. She took a deep breath, trying to slow the frantic beating of her heart. It hammered against her ribs, so loud she thought the security guards at the front entrance of The Belvedere Club might hear it.

Alya reached into her expensive leather handbag. Her fingers brushed against her makeup compact before finding what she needed. She pulled out an antique Cartier hairpin. The cold gold and tiny diamonds bit into her fingertips. She gathered her long, dark hair, twisting it into a tight, severe bun at the nape of her neck, and secured it with the heavy pin.

She crouched down, her knees popping in the cold. She shoved her designer bag into a dark, greasy gap behind a large green dumpster. The smell of rotting food made her stomach turn. She prayed no one would steal it. It held her ID and her last credit card.

Alya stood up and smoothed down the front of the black skirt. She raised her chin, forcing her facial muscles to relax into a blank, professional mask. She didn't hesitate. She pushed her weight against the heavy metal door of the employee entrance.

The door clicked open. The noise and heat of the industrial kitchen hit her like a physical blow. The air smelled of searing meat, garlic, and expensive truffles. The clatter of heavy ceramic plates and the shouting of chefs instantly drowned out the ringing in her ears.

A heavy-set chef with sweat pouring down his red face turned around. He held a massive steel pan. His eyes narrowed as he stared at her unfamiliar face.

Alya immediately looked down. She grabbed a white towel from a nearby counter and wiped her hands on the black apron she had tied around her waist. She kept her eyes glued to the wet floor tiles, avoiding his gaze entirely.

She walked fast. Her black flats squeaked slightly on the grease-slicked floor. She weaved through the prep stations, her eyes fixed on the silver doors of the service elevator at the far end of the kitchen.

She was almost there. Ten feet. Five feet.

Suddenly, a tall man in a sharp grey suit stepped out from a corner hallway. He blocked her path completely. A gold name tag on his lapel read: Leland Vance, Floor Manager.

Leland frowned. His sharp eyes scanned her cheap uniform, then settled on the generic plastic name tag she had pinned to her chest.

"You," Leland snapped. "Why aren't you serving in the main dining room on the first floor? We are short-staffed down there."

Alya's palms started to sweat. The moisture made her fingers slip against the fabric of her skirt. She swallowed hard, forcing her throat to open.

"Mr. Quentin reassigned me," Alya lied. Her voice was steady, though her stomach tied into a tight knot. "He told me to bring a specific vintage up to the private rooms. An emergency request."

Leland's frown deepened. He looked her up and down, his eyes full of suspicion. He reached for the black walkie-talkie clipped to his belt.

"Quentin didn't mention any reassignments on the radio," Leland said, his thumb pressing the button on the device.

Alya stopped breathing. Her lungs burned. If he called Quentin, she was finished. The massive breach of contract fee would destroy her father's company by morning.

A loud crash shattered the tension. Three feet away, a young waiter slipped on a puddle of spilled sauce. A massive silver tray holding a pyramid of champagne glasses hit the floor. Glass shattered everywhere. Champagne sprayed across Leland's polished leather shoes.

Leland cursed loudly, dropping his walkie-talkie. He spun around to scream at the terrified waiter.

Alya didn't waste a second. She ducked her head, muttered a quick apology to the empty air, and slipped past Leland. She lunged into the open service elevator.

She slammed her hand against the 'Close Door' button. She pressed it five times, her breath coming in short, harsh gasps. The metal doors slid shut just a fraction of a second before Leland turned his head back toward her.

Alya leaned against the cold metal wall of the elevator. She let out a long, shaky breath. Her legs felt like jelly.

The elevator jerked and began its slow ascent. Alya pulled her phone from her skirt pocket. Her fingers left sweaty smudges on the screen. She opened the text message from her best friend, Kenzie. It was a crude floor plan of the 17th floor.

The elevator stopped. A soft ding echoed in the small space. The doors slid open slowly.

The air on the 17th floor was entirely different. It smelled of rich mahogany and expensive cigars. The hallway was covered in a thick, dark red velvet carpet that swallowed all sound. The silence was heavy, almost suffocating.

At the far end of the long corridor stood two massive oak doors. Two men in tailored black suits stood in front of them. They were huge, their shoulders broad, earpieces curled behind their ears.

Alya bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. She walked over to a wooden service cart parked near the elevator. A single, unopened bottle of vintage Romanée-Conti sat on a silver tray, alongside a crystal glass.

She picked up the heavy silver tray. She kept her head bowed, staring at the red carpet. She forced her legs to move in a steady, measured pace toward the guards.

As she approached, the guard on the left stepped forward. He raised a thick, muscular arm, blocking the double doors.

"Stop," the guard grunted. "Show me your 17th-floor access pass."

Alya didn't stop immediately. She took one more step and intentionally let her left wrist dip. The silver tray tilted sharply. The priceless bottle of Romanée-Conti slid toward the edge.

The guard's eyes widened. He instinctively lunged forward, his hands reaching out to catch the bottle before it smashed on the floor.

Alya righted the tray at the last possible second. She looked up at the guard, her eyes wide, playing the part of a stressed, overworked servant.

"Please," Alya whispered, making her voice sound sweet and desperate. "The VIP guest inside is losing his patience. If this wine is late, he will complain to management. Are you going to take the blame for making him wait?"

The guard froze. He heard the words "VIP guest." His eyes darted to the other guard. They shared a look of pure hesitation. Nobody wanted to anger the men who rented the 17th floor.

The guard on the right slowly lowered his arm. He pressed a finger to his earpiece and muttered something too low for Alya to hear. He nodded once, then turned and pushed open the heavy oak door.

Alya forced her facial muscles to remain still. She gave a small, polite nod to the guards.

She stepped over the brass threshold. Her shoes sank into the even thicker carpet inside the room. She walked into the dim, luxurious VIP lounge.

The heavy oak door clicked shut behind her, sealing her inside.

Alya slowly raised her head. Across the massive room, standing in front of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city lights, was a tall man. His broad back was turned to her.

She gripped the edges of the silver tray. Her target was right in front of her.