The largest VIP room at the July Club was dimly lit, shadows mingling with silhouettes. Yet Molly spotted Miles immediately, seated in the center.
It wasn't his striking looks that drew her eye. In this den of indulgence, every man had a woman draped over his arm—except Miles. He sat alone, a cigarette between his fingers, watching the room through a veil of smoke with detached indifference.
As a wife, she supposed she should feel some satisfaction that her husband kept himself so... pristine.
But when that same husband wouldn't lay a finger on his own wife? That was infuriating.
In this moment, Molly truly envied Sibyl.
Miles had noticed her the instant she walked in—specifically, her waist. A gray blouse tucked into high-waisted black trousers, the cut accentuating how slender she was, how easily his hands could span her.
"Ms. Harding, I could wrap one hand around that waist and lift you right up," someone called out, punctuating the comment with a whistle.
Molly glanced at him. "Why don't you try later? Let's see if you actually can."
As she spoke, Miles rose from the sofa.
When he reached her side, she caught his scent—sandalwood and tobacco, faint but unmistakable. She followed him out.
He stood close, his shadow falling over her. Molly instinctively stepped back, but before she could, he spoke: "We're still married. Watch yourself."
She studied his cold expression and realized he'd misread what happened inside.
She considered explaining, but the divorce settlement was already finalized. What was the point?
Besides, the hypocrisy was rich. He and Sibyl hadn't exactly been discreet.
She kept that thought to herself. The brooch was still in his possession. He'd promised to return it, but if she annoyed him, he could drag his feet for days, and she'd have no choice but to wait.
"Fine. I won't cause you any trouble," she said, her tone perfectly agreeable.
Miles looked down at her—the subtle makeup, the understated elegance, beauty without ostentation.
She'd been shy and eager to please before. Yesterday, sharp-tongued. Now, excessively compliant.
He couldn't tell which version was real.
"Are you leaving?" Molly asked. "I'll stay half an hour, then go."
She was being more than reasonable. They were getting divorced, yet here she was, maintaining appearances.
Miles swept her with a cool glance and returned to the room without a word. Clearly not pleased.
Molly thought he was impossible. She was doing him a favor, and he couldn't even manage a civil expression.
Back inside, she found Kirsten in the most secluded corner, and they talked quietly.
Kirsten seemed distracted. Molly followed her gaze.
Miles was smoking, the ember flickering at his fingertips. From this angle, his profile was arresting—the clean line of his jaw, the sharp planes of his face. The phrase raw magnetism came to mind.
"God, he's..." Kirsten breathed. "You should sleep with him. Otherwise it's just a waste."
Someone killed the music right at that moment.
The words hung in the sudden silence. Every pair of eyes in the room turned toward them, laden with speculation.
Awkward didn't begin to cover it.
Aside from Felix and a few others, no one here knew about her connection to Miles.
The guy who'd offered to lift her—Douglas James, she remembered—leaned forward with a smirk. "So, Ms. Harding, who exactly are you looking to sleep with?"
"Douglas, back off. None of your business," Felix cut in.
Douglas scoffed. "What's your problem? A woman this beautiful—can't a man express some admiration?" He winked at Molly. "I'm very well-behaved, you know."
The sleazy grin was almost too much to look at.
"Doug, why don't you take a guess," Felix said, an edge of amusement in his voice. "Who do you think Ms. Harding has her eye on?"
Molly was well-known in Harbor City's circles—beautiful, sharp, and a force in business. She'd crossed paths with nearly everyone in this room. The only exception was the man who'd just returned from abroad, untouchable and aloof: Miles Vance.
All eyes shifted to him. Molly opened her mouth to explain, but Felix shoved her toward Miles before she could get a word out.
The room erupted in catcalls and whistles.
Then a voice cut through—low, cold, final.
"Enough. She's my sister."
