Page 23 of Broken Doll

I let my lips curve, a slow, knowing smirk—half tease, half dare—and saunter straight for him, hips swaying just enough to snag every eye in the room. The booth's leather groans as I slide in uninvited, crossing my legs so the slit flashes a sliver of thigh—smooth, pale, a hook he can't dodge.

"Victor Reese," I purr, voice low and smoky, dripping with sin as I settle close, letting my perfume—vanilla, amber, a dark bite—hit him. "Hope I'm not crashing your little solo party."

Look at me, acting like his name's a spell I just discovered, not something I've been reciting while staring at his photo for days. If he only knew I could draw a map of every mole on his body from memory.

He tilts his glass, studying me over the rim, those green eyes flickering with amusement—and something hotter, hungrier—before taking a slow sip. The whiskey slides down his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing, and he sets the glass down with a soft clink, fingers lingering on the crystal.

"I don't believe we've met," he says, voice smooth as velvet, edged with a cocky lilt that says he's used to women tripping over themselves to climb his dick.

"Oh, we haven't." I extend my hand, palm down, regal as a queen waiting for worship. The emerald ring—borrowed from whatever black-budget closet Sienna raided—catches the light, a flash of green that matches my dress. Another calculated detail. Another hook.

He takes it—his grip warm, firm, a little too tight—and his fingers skim my knuckles, slow and deliberate, testing me, trying to throw me off. I've played this game since I was old enough to bat my lashes—I let my nails graze his skin as I pull back, a whisper of friction that says I could linger, if you're worth it.

He exhales—soft, a hiss through his teeth—and I clock it, a chink in his smug armor. My pulse kicks, a thrill sparking low in my gut. It's almost disappointing how easy this is. Men like Victor think they're apex predators, but really they're just walking hard-ons with platinum cards.

"Then tell me," he leans in, elbows on the table, voice dropping to a husky murmur that's all bedroom and boardroom, "who's gracing my bed tonight?"

I smile, lashes dipping just enough to reel him in—Killion's training snapping into place, muscle memory I didn't have six weeks ago. "You can call me Lydia," I say, voice silk-wrapped gravel, letting the crass edge peek through.

Lydia. Not Landry. The switchover feels like slipping into a warm bath—too easy, too comfortable. Should that worry me? Probably. Does it? Not as much as it fucking should.

His lips quirk—he knows it's fake, doesn't give a shit—and he leans back, swirling his whiskey, watching the amber churn like he's got all the time in the world. "You came straight to me," he muses, voice low, smug. "Most women circle, play hard to get, wait for me to call the shots."

I arch a brow, letting my foot nudge his under the table—a brush, a spark, old-school bold. "And I have a feeling most women bore you," I say, crude slipping through the polish, and his eyes flash, intrigue hooking deep, his smirk widening like I've just handed him a prize. "I'm the kind of woman who likes to get straight to the point."

He studies me, gaze dropping to my chest, my legs, then back to my lips, lingering like he's already picturing them wrapped around him. The air between us thickens, charged with something dark and hungry. The scent of his cologne—something expensive, sandalwood and citrus—mingles with the whiskey on his breath.

My stomach twists—not with disgust, but with a sick thrill. The game's always been the high for me, and this? This is the ultimate game. The stakes higher, the rush sharper.

"And what do you do, Lydia?" He asks, setting the game in motion, voice caressing my fake name like it's a secret he's keeping.

I lean forward, slow and deliberate, letting him catch my scent, see the shadow between my tits. "I make men like you…" I pause, licking my lips, slow and filthy, "very, very happy."

Christ, could this script be any more on the nose? It's like fucking Cinemax After Dark dialogue, but he's eating it up with a goddamn spoon. Note to self: Men with money are just as easy as men without it—they just have fancier packaging.

My voice drops to a whisper—crude, velvet-drenched—and his pupils blow wide, breath hitching, a bulge twitching under that pricey suit. He's snared, caught in my web, and I let the silence stretch, let him stew in it, the tease of me just out of reach.

"You're bold," he says, voice rougher now, leaning in, his knee brushing mine—a test, a claim. "I like that. Most girls play coy, think it's cute. You—you're different."

"Different's my middle name," I shoot back, smirking, letting my fingers trail the edge of his glass, brushing his hand—a tease from training, a taunt from me. "You strike me as a guy who gets what he wants. Am I right?"

The ice in his glass clinks as I brush against it, the sound sharp in the low murmur of the bar. Somewhere behind us, a woman laughs—too loud, too bright—and the band shifts to something slower, darker, the bass thrumming through the floor like a heartbeat.

He chuckles, low and dark, sipping his whiskey, eyes never leaving mine. The liquor catches the light, glowing amber against his lips. "You could say that."

I chuckle, the sound low and throaty. "Must be nice to be the king." My tone's light, flirty, but there's a bite —and his grin widens, eating it up.

Men like him never get the joke—they think they're in on it, when really they're the punchline.

It really shouldn't be this easy. But that's the thing about power—the more you have, the more blind spots you collect.

A trickle of sweat slides down my spine, caught by the silk of my dress. The air around us feels thick, charged, the noise of the bar fading to a distant hum.

“Tell me,” he prompts, voice a low murmur that straddles boardroom command and bedroom promise, “what is it you’re really after, sweetheart?”

I smile, lashes dipping just enough to reel him in. "I'm not complicated. I like good drinks, expensive things, and men who don't waste my time pretending they're looking for something they're not."

Look at me, playing the high-class escort like I've done this my whole life. Killion would be proud. Or he'd find seventeen reasons I'm about to get myself killed. Either way, I'm in it now, drowning in this role, and fuck if it doesn't feel good to be someone else for a night.

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