The guest bedroom in Quinn's Brooklyn apartment smelled of lavender and expensive dry shampoo.
Faith stood in front of the full-length mirror. Gone were the conservative, high-necked blouses and shapeless slacks Hartwell had preferred her to wear.
Tonight, she wore a black silk slip dress she had borrowed from Quinn's closet. The fabric clung to the curves she had hidden for years, the thin spaghetti straps highlighting her delicate collarbones.
Quinn stepped behind her, wielding a tube of MAC Ruby Woo lipstick.
"Hold still," Quinn commanded, carefully applying the vivid red color to Faith's lips.
The bright crimson instantly washed away the exhaustion under Faith's eyes, making her pale skin look luminous and her dark eyes striking. She looked dangerous. She looked alive.
Thirty minutes later, an Uber dropped them off on the cobblestone streets of Soho.
The French Bistro was the hottest reservation in the city. A line of hopeful diners wrapped around the block, shivering in the cold.
Quinn, utilizing her status as a senior fashion editor, bypassed the velvet rope entirely. She gave the bouncer a sharp nod, grabbed Faith's hand, and pulled her into the chaotic, dimly lit restaurant.
The maître d' immediately escorted them to a plush, semi-circular leather booth by the window. It was a prime spot, offering a clear view of the entire dining room.
Faith sank into the red leather. She ordered a dry martini.
The jazz music pulsing through the speakers and the low hum of conversation slowly uncoiled the tight knot in her stomach.
When the drinks arrived, she clinked her glass against Quinn's. The icy gin burned pleasantly down her throat, washing away the lingering metallic taste of the morning's disaster.
Quinn suddenly cursed under her breath, her fingers aggressively tapping the screen of her phone. "Are you kidding me?" she muttered, her eyes darting up to Faith. "I just saw Eveline Craig's Instagram story. She tagged this exact restaurant three minutes ago. We need to leave."
But it was already too late. A ripple of hushed whispers swept through the front of the restaurant.
The maître d' practically sprinted to the entrance, bowing obsequiously as he guided two VIP guests through the crowded tables toward the center of the room.
Faith instinctively followed the movement of the crowd.
Her hand froze halfway to her mouth. The martini glass hovered in mid-air.
Striding through the restaurant was Hartwell. He wore a long, tailored black cashmere overcoat that made him look like a dark god among mortals.
Clinging tightly to his left arm was Eveline Craig, draped in a white silk gown that looked more suited for a bridal magazine than a dinner date.
Faith's eyes dropped to Hartwell's right hand.
Wrapped thickly around his palm was a stark white medical bandage. A physical manifestation of his violent loss of control.
Quinn saw them a second later. She slammed her drink down on the table. "You have got to be kidding me. What a nightmare."
As the waiter pulled out a chair for Eveline, Hartwell casually lifted his head. His predatory gaze swept over the restaurant, assessing the room out of pure habit.
His eyes locked directly onto the corner booth.
Hartwell stopped dead in his tracks.
His pupils dilated so fast his eyes appeared entirely black. He stared at Faith.
He had never seen her in a dress like that. The black silk exposed the smooth skin of her shoulders. The red lipstick made her look like a stranger-a breathtaking, untouchable stranger.
A violent jolt of electricity shot straight to his groin.
But then, the lust was instantly swallowed by a suffocating wave of fury.
She had seen him. He knew she had. But instead of looking away in tears, instead of staring at him with heartbreak, Faith simply blinked.
Her face remained completely blank. She turned her head away, looking back at Quinn, and took a slow sip of her martini.
She looked right through him. Like he was a piece of furniture.
Hartwell's jaw clamped shut so hard his teeth ground together. The muscles in his neck strained against his collar. A blinding, irrational rage ignited in his chest.
He marched to his seat and threw himself into the chair.
Eveline, highly attuned to his every mood, followed his line of sight. When she saw Faith sitting there looking like a masterpiece, her perfectly manicured smile faltered.
A toxic, ugly jealousy flared in Eveline's chest.
She immediately morphed her expression into one of fragile concern. She reached across the table, her fingers lightly brushing the white bandage on Hartwell's hand.
"Does your hand still hurt, darling?" Eveline cooed, her voice loud enough to carry.
Hartwell violently jerked his hand away from her touch.
He didn't even look at Eveline. His eyes were physically anchored to Faith's booth.
He watched Faith lean forward, her red lips parting as she said something to Quinn. Quinn threw her head back and laughed loudly.
Faith was smiling. She was actually smiling.
The realization that she was perfectly fine without him, that she was thriving while his chest felt like it was caving in, made Hartwell's breathing turn ragged and shallow.
He raised his hand and snapped his fingers at the sommelier.
"Bring me your most expensive Bordeaux. Now," Hartwell growled, desperate for alcohol to drown the manic buzzing in his brain.
Across the table, Eveline bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. Her fingernails dug into her palms. She would not let this pathetic ex-wife steal his attention.
Eveline picked up her water glass, taking a slow sip. Over the rim of the glass, she caught the eye of a paparazzi photographer she had paid to wait near the bar.
She gave him a subtle, sharp nod. It was time to put Faith back in her place.
