Chapter 12
BAD BITCH ENERGY: ACTIVATED
RORIE
I’m scrolling through my messages, deleting the ones I don’t need anymore when I come across Unknown.
It’s been few days since my accidental mystery flirt, and I’ve officially dubbed it a One Night Send.
A flurry of clever texts. A deeply unnecessary emotional overshare. A digital vanishing act.
Classic.
No follow-up. No “hey, you were kind of great.” No “sorry I rage-texted into the void like a rejected poetry major.”
Just radio silence.
And that’s fine.
Totally fine.
Absolutely, definitively, irreversibly…
Whatever.
I still catch myself glancing at my phone more often than I should—like I’m waiting for a text that clearly isn’t coming from a number that may or may not have belonged to a heartbroken man with excellent punctuation.
But I can’t afford to spiral tonight.
Tonight, I have to look like vengeance in heels.
Asher Cross’s party—the event of the summer according to Jeremy—is not the kind of place you show up emotionally rumpled.
So I armor up.
Black satin dress, sculpted to stun. A neckline that could start rumors and end careers. Sleek silver heels that scream money and menace. Opera-length gloves for drama. A diamond bracelet that used to belong to my grandmother—and now belongs to my revenge arc.
Structured waves. Winged liner. Red lipstick with the emotional maturity of a blood oath.
By the time Maya texts that she’s outside, I look like I’ve been summoned, not invited.
I grab my clutch and head down.
Jeremy’s already sprawled across the back seat, one arm draped across his forehead “Finally,” he says dramatically—then stops. Stares. Blinks. “Okay, wow. I was ready to roast you for being late, but now I’m just trying to remember how the English language works.”
“A wise woman once said: if you can’t be on time, at least be iconic.” I slide in beside him and buckle my seatbelt.
“You’re both. I’m terrified,” he says, still staring. “You look like the love child of Ava Gardner and high-level vengeance. And I support that for you.”
The Uber glides away from the curb, the city lights sliding across the windows like a prelude to something cinematic.
From the front seat, Maya twists and looks back at us like she’s already regretting every life choice that led to this moment.
“Okay, but seriously—we need an escape plan if things go sideways. I am not getting stuck in a karaoke cult again.”
Jeremy sighs. “Escape plan? Please. This isn’t a heist. It’s an Asher Cross party. If anything, we need a stunt coordinator and a SWAT team.”
“I need a taser,” Maya mutters. “Last time I got separated from you two at a party like this, I ended up in a makeshift cabana getting my shoulders rubbed by a guy named Tré who said we were cosmically aligned because we both bite string cheese instead of pulling it apart. He sent me unsolicited dick pics for months.”
“Oh my God, Tré,” Jeremy sighs wistfully. “He was fun. You’re too judgmental.”
“He used his man bun to mop up his drink, Jeremy.”
“Eco-conscious king,” he counters.
I laugh into my clutch. “Okay. Maya’s right. We need rules. We can’t just Rawdog this party.”
“Rule one,” Maya says immediately. “Keep Dr. Fiddlestorm the Third in your pants tonight, Jeremy. We don’t need a repeat of the limoncello incident.”
Jeremy looks personally attacked. “That was art.”
“You got banned from an entire conference...for life.”
“I liberated the vibe.”
I snort. “Okay, rule two: No splitting up without texting the group. This is a party, not a horror movie.”
Maya adds, straight-faced. “If anyone offers me shoulder rubs and starts a sentence with ‘I’m actually an empath,’ I’m setting something on fire.”
“What’s the signal for ‘I’m being emotionally kidnapped?’” Jeremy snaps a selfie.
“Three winks,” Maya answers.
“What if you just have dust or an eyelash in your eye?”
“Assume the worst first,” Maya counters.
“Rule three,” I add, “Do not drink anything that glows in the dark.”
Offended, Jeremy places a hand over his heart. “That’s targeting me specifically, and I’m choosing to ignore the shade.”
“You went missing for four hours and came back with a feather boa and no eyebrows,” Maya says flatly.
“I was reborn.”
“In someone’s hot tub?”
Jeremy just shrugs. “Fine. Rule four: make an entrance so legendary it gets me a modeling contract and you both a book deal.”
Maya sighs. “That rule has never worked.”
“It will. Tonight’s the night,” he says, already pulling out a pair of gold-rimmed sunglasses he fully intends to wear indoors. “We are the drama, babes.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself.
The butterflies are there—flickering just under my ribs—but they’re quiet. Tamed. Because if tonight turns into a complete shit show… at least I’m not walking into it alone.
When we arrive at Asher’s penthouse, the party’s already in full swing. Music pulses from every angle, a low, seductive beat that vibrates through the soles of my heels and into my chest.
The rooftop patio spills over with people—model-gorgeous types with glowing cocktails in hand, voices pitched to be overheard, like everyone here is starring in their own highlight reel.
A waitress with a tray of bioluminescent drinks floats by. Maya declines the first two with a wrinkle of her nose, then caves on the third because it has “good” lighting.
“I swear,” she mutters, eyeing the green liquid like it might start doing tricks. “If this has glitter in it, I’m blaming Jeremy.”
“I hope it does,” I say, deadpan. “Nothing says class like gastrointestinal sparkle.”
Jeremy’s already halfway to the bar, promising to return with something “transformative.” We’ll see.
Maya gets swept away by a guy in a linen shirt who greets her like an old war buddy. And just like that—I’m alone.
I step onto the patio, letting the warm air wrap around me like silk. The scent hits first—chlorine, coconut, maybe rum, definitely citrus.
The pool glows under string lights like it knows it’s the main character. And overhead, the skyline of Manhattan glitters just beyond the railing, distant and unreachable.
This is a perfect little snow globe of anarchy. And I’m on the hunt.
I scan the crowd for power, or money, or just a decent set of shoulders to flirt with.
My stomach bottoms out. Nolan “Fuck Me He Looks Good” Rhodes, standing by the pool, half in shadow, half bathed in golden light like some tortured noir antihero.
His tux is basically molded to his body, a black jacket framing broad shoulders, a crisp white shirt with bowtie.
His hair is artfully tousled. And that scowl on his face is unapologetic.
I hate how hot he is.
I hate how much he knows it.
I hate that I can’t stop looking at him.
His eyes rake across the party, detached and calculating until they land on me.
My breath stutters. The glass in my hand is suddenly too warm, like I’ve been holding it for hours.
Our gazes lock. Hold. Fuse.
A jolt of static zips through, low and slow, tightening muscle and breath. Heat coils at the base of my spine, molten and inconvenient. The air between us is tense, charged with that same sharp-edged electricity as the other night.
Nolan doesn’t look away. Neither do I.
His lips tilt. Just barely. One side of his mouth curves up in the kind of smirk that should be illegal in several countries. It says everything he doesn’t need to say: I see you, sweetheart. I know exactly what you’re thinking. And it’s mutual.
My jaw clenches. Nolan “Make-Eye-Contact-and-I-Ovulate” Rhodes doesn’t know shit!
Especially not what I’m thinking.
Of all the broody bastards in this city, why did it have to be him?
Also… why is my stomach doing aerial stunts while my thighs try to pretend they’re not interested?
I tilt my chin higher, force my lips into a neutral, cold, untouchable smile. His eyes flick down, like he’s reading the heat beneath the frost.
God, his mouth. Why does it look like it was carved by temptation itself?
That mouth was on me. I lick my lips.
Fuck, he knows. He knows what my body’s doing to me right now. And by the smug precision of that smile, he’s enjoying every second of it.
I came here to make moves. Not mistakes.
I find Jeremy and Maya posted up by the fountain bar, taking synchronized shots.
“Big Stream is here,” I say, setting my drink down with a little too much force.
They both swivel in unison then the rooftop erupts into a swell of gasps and camera flashes.
Because Asher Cross does not enter a room. He arrives.
A low thump shakes the patio floor then a hiss of smoke jets up from either side of the pool like we’re in a Mission Impossible reboot. Lights flicker dramatically until a spotlight finds him.
Asher steps through the fog, aviator sunglasses, shirt half-unbuttoned, wind-whipped hair in a devil-may-care way. It’s like he just stepped out of a storm and somehow still smells like leather and sexy man, not a strand of hair out of place, even though it looks like all of them are.
He’s flanked by two men who I’m pretty sure were 3D printed from a protein shake commercial. One’s got a champagne bottle in each hand. The other just ripped his shirt off and is now raging to absolutely no one.
A cheer breaks out. Someone yells, “We love you, Asher!”
I swear someone behind us starts crying.
“This isn’t a party,” Jeremy whispers. “It’s a cult with better lighting.”
And then, from the crowd’s edge—moving like he belongs there, because of course he does—Nolan “That Snake in the Grass” Rhodes appears.
He’s already at Asher’s side, greeting him like they’ve done this a hundred times. Confident handshake, a lean-in to exchange a few low words. Nolan’s expression is easy, controlled.
My stomach drops.
That’s when it hits me.
Nolan isn’t just here to smirk at me across the rooftop and make my insides curl.
He’s here for the same damn reason I am.
To make a play for Asher Cross.
To win the client.
To win my client.