2
LIA
Nicholas Samson moved like his shadow could eclipse the moon—and the obscene amount of money he was funneling into Corvo’s IPO made that seem entirely plausible.
It was why I was smiling at him the way all women knew how to smile when pretending to care. Polite. Pliant. Sharp enough to keep him interested, but dull enough to make him think he had the upper hand.
“…and you have to admit, in a world of AI-this and technology-that, investing in something tangible, something you can touch—a casino you canstay at—has a certain timeless appeal,” he droned, gesturing grandly with a wine glass in his hand.
I laughed, light and genteel. “You don’t have to sell me on my own hotels!”
“Oh, I’m not,” he said, plucking an hors d’oeuvre from a passing tray. “I’m just here for the free drinks and caviar.”
That earned him a chuckle, small but genuine. “And obviously I agree with everything you’ve said.”
“Well, you have to,” he said, grinning. “At occasions like these, it’s practically your job to blow as much smoke up my ass as possible. I could tell you the sky was green, and you’d have to nod politely.”
“Hmm,” I replied, letting my gaze linger just a fraction too long. “Well, seeing as your stature is so much higher than mine, maybe the skyisgreen up there—assuming it’s the color of money, of course.”
He laughed, loud and rich. “Oh, you’re dangerous, aren’t you.”
“What can I say?” I said, giving him a slightly feral grin. “I am my father’s daughter.”
“Lia,” said a familiar voice behind me. “I need a word.”
“Ah, it’s the iron fist, come to meet the velvet glove,” Nicholas announced with a smirk as Rhaim stepped up beside me.
“More like the other way around,” Rhaim replied, his tone dry, but not teasing.
Nicholas’s eyes widened slightly, then flicked to me. “Then I’m excited to see what future depths we have to plumb, Miss Ferreo,” he said, tilting his head before departing.
I straightened my shoulders and schooled my expression the same way I had around him for the past eight weeks, three days, and twenty hours—but who was counting?
“What is it?” I asked, as neutrally as possible.
“Lambo,” he told me, quietly.
It was my safe word, repeated back to me, for the first time since we’d met in the cemetery where his wife was buried.
A chill slid down my spine, followed by a sharp, rising anger. “Have we been in a scene for the past two months and you just never bothered to tell me?” I hissed.
He didn’t dignify that with a response. “I need you to meet me in the back upstairs bathroom, fifteen minutes from now.”
I opened my mouth to demand why—but stopped myself. I wouldn’t get an answer. My hands flew to their opposite wrists, tugging the silk sleeves of my coat down to hide them—an old, anxious habit I’d almost forgotten.
Then Rhaim’s gaze softened, dragging over my face like he was seeing me for the first time in months, the wall between us cracking just enough to let him in. My heart stuttered, against my will.
It was utterly unfair.
“Act normal,” he said firmly. “Laugh when I’m done talking. Don’t be followed.”
I forced a laugh and shook my head like he’d just made a sarcastic joke—something just believable enough for anyone watching. He took my glass from me without another word and left, melting into the crowd as though nothing had happened.
I stood there, disoriented in a sea of semi-strangers. My pulse raced, each beat a reminder that the ground beneath me wasn’t as solid as I’d thought.
I went to get another glass of wine at once.
I managedto wait seventeen and a half minutes, because fuck him if he thought I was at his beck and call.