7

Three hours until I'm supposed to meet Sasha at the coffee shop on Bleecker. She texted she has the dress and some news. I pace my room in nothing but a towel, hair still damp from a shower that wasn't cold enough to wash the memory of his hands off my skin. Every time I close my eyes I see Caleb's face at the breakfast table, casual as murder, telling Callum about Jade like I was already nothing.

The intercom buzzes thirty minutes early. I wrap the towel tighter and press the speaker. "Yeah?"

"Get down here, I'm not dealing with your brother's security gauntlet." Sasha's voice crackles through the speaker, amused and impatient. "I have the dress and approximately fourteen minutes before my next fitting."

I grab my keys and slip out the door before Callum can ask where I'm going. The elevator ride is six floors of watching the numbers change and feeling my stomach drop in a way that has nothing to do with motion.

Sasha's parked illegally in the loading zone, a silver Mercedes with the trunk already popped. She's leaning against the driver's door in white jeans and a black blazer, holding a garment bag like a weapon. She's been my best friend since freshman orientation, tall and sharp-edged, with a face that belongs on a runway and a vocabulary that belongs in a boxing ring.

"You look like someone canceled your favorite show," she says, handing me the bag. "Try it on. If it doesn't fit, I have a backup that's meaner."

I unzip the bag right there in the loading zone and the black fabric catches the afternoon light like oil on water. It's a slip dress, silk charmeuse, cut so simple it's almost cruel — thin straps, a neckline that plunges to the sternum, a hem that won't cover much. I hold it up and feel my pulse thicken.

"Sasha. This is —"

"Fifty-two hundred dollars retail, and you're not paying for it. Marguerite owes me a favor from Paris Fashion Week. The fabric is silk charmeuse, it'll move like water, and when you walk into whatever club you're haunting tonight, everyone in the room will forget their own names." She lights a cigarette, casual as breathing. "Now. Who's the guy, and why are you hunting him at a sex club?"

I don't answer. I just hold the dress against my body and feel something harden in my chest. Not courage. Something older. Something that's been sleeping under my ribs since I was sixteen and first understood what the heat in Caleb's eyes meant.

"My brother's best friend," I say finally. "And he thinks he can replace me with a yoga instructor named Jade."

Sasha's eyebrows go up. "Callum's best friend? The tall one with the eyes?" She takes a long drag. "Honey. That's not a crush. That's a biblical plague. You're going to need more than a dress."

She reaches into her purse and pulls out a small black card. No logo. Just a silver serial number. "Marguerite's brother owns Lux. I told her my friend needed a favor. This gets you into the VIP suite — the one with the private entrance and the full bar. The one where the players take their... guests."

I look at the card in my hand. Same weight as the one I stole from Callum's nightstand. Same matte finish. Same silver numbers. I have two now. Insurance.

"What time do you need to be there?" Sasha asks.

"He's taking her at ten."

"Then you're there at nine-thirty. You settle in before he arrives. You let him walk into his own VIP suite and find you already there." She grinds her cigarette out on the curb. "You don't chase him, Bella. You let him walk into the trap."