The door clicked shut behind them, cutting off the noise from the hallway.
The VIP suite was freezing. The air conditioning was cranked down low, chilling the sweat on Ivy's skin. The room smelled of cedarwood, old leather, and a very expensive, very masculine cologne.
Ivy stumbled, trying to regain her balance in her heels. The little girl was still clutching her hand like a lifeline, pressing her small body against Ivy's leg.
"What on earth-"
"Who are you?"
The voice was like a glacier-deep, cold, and utterly devoid of warmth.
Ivy looked up.
Seated at a large round table in the center of the room was a man. He was striking, with sharp, aristocratic features and eyes the color of a stormy sea. He wore a black suit that cost more than Ivy's entire new wardrobe. He radiated power and irritation in equal waves.
Auguste Randall. The CEO of the Randall Group. The King of Cloud City.
Opposite him sat a woman in a silver sequined dress. She looked startled, her fork hovering halfway to her mouth.
"Auguste, who is this?" the woman demanded, looking Ivy up and down with distaste. "Is this the nanny?"
Auguste didn't look at his date. His gaze was fixed on the child clinging to Ivy.
"Ara," he said. His voice softened by a fraction of a degree, but it was still commanding. "Come here."
The little girl-Ara-shook her head violently. She buried her face in the silk of Ivy's dress, her small shoulders shaking.
Ivy felt the dampness of tears seeping through the fabric onto her thigh.
A wave of protective instinct, hot and fierce, surged through Ivy. She didn't know this child, but she knew that fear. She knew what it felt like to want to hide from the world.
Without thinking, Ivy placed her hand on Ara's head, stroking her messy curls.
"Apologies," Ivy said, lifting her chin to meet Auguste's gaze. "Your daughter... kidnapped me."
Auguste's eyes narrowed. He watched Ivy's hand on his daughter's head. He seemed surprised that Ara wasn't recoiling. Ara hated strangers. She hated being touched.
Yet here she was, melting into this woman in red.
A discreet man in a dark suit, who had been standing almost invisibly in the corner of the room, tensed and took a half-step forward. Auguste lifted a single, commanding finger, halting the bodyguard in his tracks. His gaze remained locked on Ivy, a flicker of something unreadable-curiosity, perhaps-briefly overriding his innate suspicion.
He turned to the woman in sequins. "As you can see," he said smoothly, "my domestic situation is chaotic. I cannot possibly continue this dinner."
The woman gaped. "You're kicking me out? Because the nanny can't control the brat?"
"She's not the nanny," Auguste said. "And yes. Leave."
The woman threw her napkin on the table, grabbed her clutch, and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the crystal glasses rattled.
Silence descended on the room.
Auguste stood up. He was tall, towering over the table. He walked toward them slowly, like a wolf circling a trap.
"Nobody sent you?" he asked, stopping two feet away.
Ivy held her ground, though her heart was hammering against her ribs. "I told you. I was in the hallway. She pulled me in."
Auguste looked at Ara, then back at Ivy. His gaze was intense, dissecting her.
"Who sent you?" he repeated, his voice dropping lower. "My mother? Or a competitor?"
