ELENA

“Don’t wait up, Elena.”

Alexander’s voice was low, smooth, the same tone he used when he told me to clear his calendar or book a private jet. He stood in the foyer of the penthouse with one hand at the small of another woman’s back, the other adjusting the cuff of his black shirt. The socialite—tall, golden, smelling like money and expensive perfume—laughed softly and leaned into him like she already knew how his mouth would feel between her thighs.

I stood three steps back, tablet still in my hand, the confirmation of their eight-thirty reservation glowing on the screen. My black work dress clung to my skin. My...