Page 20 of Stolen Hearts

Alone.

“Thanks again.”

I turn to leave. Pierre grabs my arm.

“What if we walk you the rest of the way to your room?”

Such a charmer.

I smile. “Oh, I think I can manage.”

“We could help you out of your party shoes, maybe run you a bath?”

Murder me horribly. Wear my skin. Yeah, for sure, that soundsawesome.

“Yeah, I’m…good.” I don’t smile this time. “And I’m leaving now. Good night.”

Mercifully, the two of them give up and turn for the door.

“Fucking cock-tease,” Guy tosses angrily over his shoulder.

“Nice English, fuck-face,” I mutter back, turning and stepping into the gilded elevator.

It rises to the floor second from the top, which is where the luxury suites are that Gavan treated us all to for our stay tonight. My phone dings in my bag. When I fish it out, my heart sinks at the short but cordial email that has just arrived in my inbox.

Goddammit.

Almost a year ago, Eilish, Neve, and I had the supremely insane idea to buy an old neighborhood Irish bar called The Banshee in the West Village that was up for sale and remake it as our own spot.

Well, to be fair,Ihad the supremely insane idea to do that. My friends just had the questionable judgement to sign on to the project with me. But despite the odds, we were actually doing really well with it. We renovated the space, hired staff, turned the cruddy old basement into this cool if small concert venue, and we even got all the way to a soft opening for family and friends.

Which is the night when a bomb planted by Leo Stavrin, a rogue employee of Gavan’s, blew our new bar to hell, injuring Ya-ya and me, almost killing Eilish, andactuallykilling Sean Farrell, a good friend of the Kildare family.

So now, we’re sort of back at square one with that whole thing.

Elsa’s been helping us to get all the contracts and permits for the new build sorted. But any reopening is alongways off, which means I’ve also been trying to figure out what the heck I’m going to do with my life in the meantime.

For years, I wasn’t really sure. I did an accelerated University program in the UK, and then when we moved back to New York, I finished up my undergrad early with some classes at NYU. Then opening the bar was like “my thing”.

And then that was taken away.

So now, after a lot of talking myself in circles, I’ve decided to get my MBA. Except, as yet another rejection email proves, “deciding to get” and “actually getting” are two very different things.

Columbia University regrets to inform you…

I close the email and shove my phone into my bag again.

Fuck.

My keycard opens the door to my suite, and I exhale as I step into the air-conditioned darkness, ready to slip out of my dress, run a bath, and order something extravagant from room service.

I only make it two steps inside before I’m grabbed from behind.

I scream, but a gloved hand clamps over my mouth. I jab my elbows back, like Hades taught me to do. The first elbow connects with a man’s torso, making him grunt. But the second is blocked, and suddenly, a leg sweeps my feet from underneath me.

I cry out, dropping to my knees before suddenly, the lights flick on, blinding me.

“Mmm…well look at you, my dear, all dressed up. For me, I hope?”

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