The November wind howling off Central Park was vicious. It cut through the thin, rented fabric of Cora's emerald green evening gown like a serrated knife. She stood behind the velvet ropes outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art, her teeth chattering so hard her jaw ached.
Camera flashes exploded like lightning on the red carpet. Hollywood A-listers and Wall Street titans glided past the barricades, shielded by umbrellas and walls of security guards. No one looked twice at the shivering woman in the shadows.
A black, armored Maybach glided to a halt at the VIP drop-off zone. The license plate was a single, terrifying word: BAUER.
The crowd surged forward. Security pushed them back. The rear door of the Maybach opened.
Jace Bauer stepped out. He wore a midnight-blue tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. His face was a mask of bored arrogance. Gus Bullock slid out from the opposite side, adjusting his bowtie and laughing at something Jace hadn't said.
Cora's heart slammed against her ribs. She gripped her small clutch purse and pushed against the crowd, trying to force her way to the front of the barricade.
"Hey! Watch it, bitch!" A blonde socialite shrieked as Cora's heel caught the edge of her tulle skirt.
The sharp curse cut through the ambient noise. Gus, who was just about to step onto the red carpet, paused. He turned his head, his eyes scanning the crowd behind the velvet rope.
His gaze locked onto Cora.
Gus's smirk vanished. He leaned toward Jace and muttered something, nodding his head toward the barricade.
Jace stopped. He turned slowly. His eyes, cold and dead as winter ice, met Cora's across the sea of photographers.
Cora stopped breathing. She took a step forward, her eyes silently begging him to stop, to let her speak.
Jace looked at her for exactly one second. His expression didn't change. There was no recognition, no curiosity. Only pure, unadulterated contempt. He looked away, turning his back on her, and continued walking up the grand staircase.
"She's Axel Malone's ex-girlfriend," Gus whispered as they walked, his voice low. "My guy checked her out after that stunt at SoHo House. She's an actress on Axel's payroll. It was a setup, Jace. She's a spy."
Jace let out a dark, humorless laugh. "Axel is getting desperate. Sending a cheap whore to do a corporate spy's job."
The heavy glass doors of the Met closed behind them, shutting out the cold and the noise.
Outside, Cora watched the doors close. A wave of nausea hit her, followed by a crushing sense of defeat. Her legs trembled, threatening to give out. She backed away from the crowd, retreating into the dark shadow of a stone pillar. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, trying to preserve whatever body heat she had left.
Click. Click. Click.
A paparazzi stringer, lurking near the bushes, had his lens pointed right at her face. He was grinning, clearly recognizing her from her minor TV roles, ready to sell a photo of her looking like a frozen, rejected groupie.
Cora's head snapped up. The defeat vanished, replaced by a surge of violent anger. She marched up to the photographer, her heels clicking aggressively on the pavement.
"You can publish a photo of me looking pathetic," she ordered, her voice like cracking ice. "Or, you can delete it, and I'll give you an exclusive tip about the real scandal happening inside tonight. Your choice."
The promise of a bigger scoop wiped the smirk off the man's face. He hesitated, weighing the value of a frozen nobody against a billionaire's scandal, then aggressively hit the delete button on his camera, muttering curses under his breath.
Cora turned away. She checked her phone. The gala would last at least three hours. She couldn't wait here.
She knew where Jace went after these events. Gus had mentioned it loudly enough at SoHo House. A private, ultra-exclusive cigar club three blocks away.
Cora started walking. The wind whipped her hair across her face. Her toes were numb. By the time she reached the dark, narrow alley behind the cigar club, she couldn't feel her fingers.
She leaned against the rough brick wall near the unmarked steel door. The alley smelled of garbage and damp earth. She closed her eyes, fighting the urge to sit down. If she sat down, she would freeze to death. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper, using the pain to stay awake.
Three hours passed. It felt like three lifetimes.
Finally, the low, powerful purr of an engine broke the silence. The black Maybach turned into the alley, its headlights cutting through the darkness.
Cora opened her eyes. She pushed herself off the brick wall. Her joints screamed in agony.
She didn't wave. She didn't shout. She simply stepped out of the shadows and planted herself directly in the center of the alley, right in the path of the two-ton armored vehicle.
She stared blindly into the blinding headlights, waiting for the impact.
