Page 3 of Before Dawn

New York City, here I come.

Chapter Two

Abigail-Ann

“Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye.”

~ H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

THREE WEEKS LATER

Ishould’ve known better than to let Azzy talk me into this. But when has she ever taken no for an answer?

Before I get into that, let me tell you about my birthday three weeks ago. I turned twenty-three. It was perfect—triple chocolate cake, terrible singing, Chipotle bowls, and barbecue Lay’s (the best snack on earth). Quiet, but the good kind of quiet. No Joshua, no criticism, just me existing for myself.

The only downside to being in New York City was missing my parents and my sister, but I bombarded them with calls until they had no choice but to answer. Still, the best part was waking up every day in the presenceof Azzy and her mom, Auntie Leann, who always made me feel loved and cared for.

That night was everything I could’ve asked for. Tonight? Not so much.

Standing on the dance floor of Midnight Mirage, I felt my stomach tighten. The club pulsed with energy—lights flashing, bass vibrating through the floor, bodies swaying to the beat. It should’ve felt exciting, but my hands felt clammy, and my pulse pounded for all the wrong reasons.

The night had started fine—until the bartender stared a little too long at my cleavage. Azzaria didn’t hesitate. “Eyes up here,” she snapped, her voice sharp, cutting through the noise. The bartender flinched.

Azzaria Willis—my brown-haired, sexy-as-hell, slightly overprotective best friend of nearly a decade—was the kind of woman who wasn’t afraid to step up and fight for me. It was part of what made her so irresistible and exactly why I loved her like a sister.

After more than a few rounds—okay, maybe ten—of scotch and whiskey, she convinced me to head straight for VIP. And now, here we were, standing before the red rope, where the best bottles gleamed behind it like exclusive trophies.

And once again, I found myself thinking, I should’ve never let Azzy talk me into this.

This was a bad idea. I knew it. But at this point, there was no turning back.

“You can’t enter without a pass,” the security guard said firmly, his deep voice as serious as the all-black suit he wore.

“How much?” I asked, already reaching for my purse.

“No cash,” he said, tone sharpening. “A pass.”

“You don’t have to be an ass,” I shot back, raising my voice enough to turn a few heads. A hint of embarrassment crept in, but the liquor in my system made it easy to ignore.

“You need a—”

“Let them in,” a distinct masculine voice interrupted, commanding and sharp.

The guard stiffened, spinning around in surprise. “But, sir—”

“I said let them in.”

A man strode toward us, his presence so powerful it seemed to quiet the air around him.

I turned to Azzaria, ready to mutter a quick thanks to whoever this savior was, but the expression on her face stopped me short. Her eyes widened, and her lips parted slightly as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.

“Holy shit,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the music.

My heart kicked up a notch as I took in the man standing before us. “Isn’t that—”

“Yes,” she said, breathless, her voice trembling with equal parts disbelief and something else I couldn’t pinpoint. “Yes, it is.”

Sure enough, it was Dillon Xander—billionaire, playboy, walking tabloid scandal.But why was he here?More importantly, why was he looking at Azzaria as if she was the only person in the room?

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