Adeline stepped out onto the sunlit pavement outside the Strong Group building. She raised her hand, flagging down a passing yellow cab.
She slid into the back seat and pulled out her phone. She dialed the number Alistair had sent her.
"Elena speaking," a crisp, professional female voice answered on the first ring.
"Clear my afternoon," Adeline said. "I need a fitting."
Thirty minutes later, the cab pulled up to an unmarked, frosted-glass storefront on Fifth Avenue. A woman in a sharp gray suit stood by the door, flanked by two men with earpieces. Elena stepped forward and opened the cab door.
"Miss Stafford. Right this way."
Elena led Adeline through a private elevator up to the penthouse styling suite. The space was massive, lined with mirrors and racks of clothing that had not yet hit the runways.
The head stylist, a man who usually only worked with royalty, gasped when he saw Adeline. He bowed his head respectfully.
Adeline dropped her bag on a velvet sofa. "I need armor. I am destroying a party tonight."
The styling team moved like a military unit. They rolled out three racks of haute couture. Adeline dismissed the lace, the tulle, the pastels. Her eyes locked onto a gown hanging in the back.
It was midnight-blue velvet. The cut was ruthless—a plunging V-neck that dipped to the sternum, with a completely open back.
Adeline took the dress into the fitting room. The heavy velvet slid over her skin, molding perfectly to her hips and waist. It felt like liquid night. When she stepped out, the entire room fell silent.
Elena let out a low breath. "It is a weapon."
The stylist pulled her hair up into a sleek, tight twist, exposing the long line of her neck. He opened a leather box and lifted out a necklace. It was a string of flawless, pigeon-blood rubies that rested heavy and cold against her collarbones.
Adeline stared at her reflection. The woman looking back was sharp, dangerous, and dripping with wealth. The ghost of the meek girlfriend was dead.
She walked to the counter. She pulled out the solid black metal card. The stylist swiped it through the terminal. The machine beeped instantly. Seven figures vanished from her account without a second of delay.
Miles away, in his glass-walled office, Evan's phone buzzed. He looked at the screen. It was an alert from his secondary credit card—the one Adeline had drained the day prior.
Transaction Declined: Insufficient Funds. Attempted purchase: $6.50 at Starbucks.
Evan stared at the notification, his jaw working. The image of Adeline stuffing the stacks of hundred-dollar bills into her bag burned behind his eyes. She had two hundred thousand dollars of his cash. She was not broke—she was walking around with his money, and the thought made his fingers curl white around the phone. He threw his head back and forced a sharp, bitter laugh. He locked the phone and tossed it onto his desk. He looked over at Piper, who was admiring a basic designer dress in the mirror.
"She took my cash and burned my card," Evan said, his voice a raw scrape. "Tonight, she will show up wearing stolen money. I am going to have security drag her out by her hair the moment she steps foot inside."
Back in the styling suite, Adeline sat at the vanity mirror. She pulled a slim satellite phone from her bag—the device Alistair had left in her possession, its number known only to a handful of operatives. The screen lit up with an incoming text.
Heard you are crashing a party tonight. Need a plus one? - C
Adeline stared at the screen. Her thumb rubbed against her index finger. Cade Kramer had eyes everywhere—and clearly, Alistair had passed along her contact.
She set the phone face down. She let the makeup artist apply a coat of deep, blood-red lipstick.
Ten minutes later, the satellite phone buzzed again.
I am downstairs. Black Maybach.
Adeline smiled. She typed back: Wait for me.
She draped a black blazer over her shoulders and walked out of the suite, the rubies cold against her skin.
The black Maybach idled at the curb. The rear window rolled down halfway. Cade sat in the back, his face half-hidden in the shadows. He turned his head as Adeline approached.
His eyes swept over her, taking in the velvet, the rubies, the red lips. The muscles in his jaw tightened visibly. A dark, possessive heat flared in his pupils.
Cade pushed the heavy door open and stepped out onto the pavement. He stood in front of her, his tall frame blocking out the streetlights.
He leaned down, his mouth inches from her ear. "You look like a vampire ready to feed."
Adeline did not step back. She reached up and adjusted the lapel of his dark suit. "I hope the prey is delicious tonight."
Cade's hand shot out. He wrapped his fingers around hers, his grip firm and hot. He guided her into the back seat of the Maybach.
The door slammed shut, sealing them inside the soundproof cabin. The air instantly grew heavy, thick with the smell of expensive leather and Cade's cedar cologne.
The Maybach pulled away from the curb, gliding silently through the Manhattan night, heading straight for the Waldorf Astoria.
