Chapter 3
I used to have a plan.
A real plan.
I was supposed to be someone. Someone important. Someone powerful.
The kind of woman who walked into a room and made people nervous.
The kind of woman who handled chaos like it was her job—because, once upon a time, that was the plan.
Law, PR, crisis management. High-profile reputation fixing. Something where I could control the narrative, smooth out disasters, make impossible problems disappear.
That was who I was supposed to be. A problem solver.
Instead, I spent years running damage control for Ben.
I let him convince me to put my dreams on hold— our future came first, he’d said. And somehow, along the way, I became his fixer. His crisis manager. His personal fucking PR rep, handling his life instead of my own.
Until he cheated.
And left.
And suddenly, I wasn’t just Ben’s girlfriend anymore.
I was nobody.
It’s funny how you don’t notice losing yourself in the moment. It happens so slowly, piece by piece, until one day you wake up and realize you have nothing that’s truly yours.
For years, we did what he wanted to do. Hung out with his friends. Moved to his city. My life was built around our relationship, and when he was gone, I had no idea what was left of me.
I’m glad to be free of him, but I hate our fucking apartment.
Everywhere I look, I still see him.
Us.
The couple we used to be.
The barstools at the kitchen counter–we picked them out together. The rug in the living room when he spilled wine on it and blamed me. The spot on the couch where we sat, tangled up, pretending like forever was real? It’s still there, like a ghost of something I can’t shake.
I’m already working on erasing the past, one paycheck at a time.
The ugly framed photos, replaced.
The hideous curtains he liked? Burned in a metaphorical funeral of bad taste.
By the time my lease is up, this place will be nothing but a shell—nothing left of him , nothing left of us. Just an empty apartment for the next idiot in love.
And when I walk into my next home, it will be mine.
Not ours.
Not his.
Just mine.
With a sharp breath, I add a few more pictures to my Pinterest page of my dream living room and then slide my phone back in my purse.
Because today, I have other things to worry about.
Like the fact that I’m walking into a literal mystery job interview at a company that doesn’t exist online.
I exit the subway, looking up at the tall buildings and sunny day as I fish my phone back out of my purse. My nerves suddenly spiking now that I’m here.
Looking at the time, I know Harper will be in the airport terminal waiting to fly out to Miami for two weeks. I tap my screen, sending my location to Harper along with a text:
SIENNA: If I get murdered, this was my last known location.
A second later, my phone buzzes with her response.
HARPER: You’re so dramatic. But also… good luck, bitch. Manifesting hot men, a six-figure salary, and maybe some light choking.
I snort, shaking my head as I slip my phone back into my purse.
God, I hope she’s at least right about the six figures.
I take a final look up at the towering black skyscraper before me, its sleek glass exterior reflecting the bright midday sun. The massive gold lettering near the entrance is crisp, polished, intimidating.
THE BLACK LEDGER.
That’s all that exists of this place.
Just this building.
A mystery wrapped in black and gold, somehow drawing me in like a moth to a flame.
I exhale, adjusting the collar of my blouse.
Red, of course.
It had stuck in my mind all weekend, looping in my head like a warning. Or maybe a sign.
"And you're already wearing the right color."
So, red it is.
A deep crimson blouse, tucked neatly into a sleek black pencil skirt. Black pumps. Gold jewelry. Power dressing at its finest.
It’s a good look.
A lucky look.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
With one last deep breath, I step toward the revolving doors, pushing through as they glide open silently.
"Well…" I murmur under my breath. “Here goes nothing.”
The moment I step inside, the space swallows me whole.
It’s sleek. Modern. Expensive.
White marble floors stretch across the vast lobby, veins of gold running through them like lightning frozen in stone. The walls are a striking contrast—deep black with subtle gold accents, giving the entire space an air of quiet power.
The Black Ledger aesthetic is clear.
Black. Gold.
The same color theme from Friday night.
And red. The color of my dress that night.
Even the receptionist is wearing a stunning red dress that hugs her like it was made for her body. Paired with crimson lipstick, she looks like she belongs on the cover of Vogue, not sitting behind a sleek black desk, typing effortlessly on a glass keyboard.
Straightening my posture, I pull the black card from my purse and step forward, clearing my throat.
"Hi," I say, placing the card on the desk. "I was given this on Friday night. I was told to show up today?"
The woman looks at the card, then up at me. And smiles.
Not a generic customer-service smile, but one with amusement—like she already knows something I don’t.
"Ah," she hums, looking at the card before giving it back to me. "Lucian hoped you would show up."
Lucian.
The name hits me like a shock to the spine.
So that’s his name.
Mr. Tall, Dark, and Tattooed.
I blink, carefully keeping my expression neutral. "I think so? I, uh… didn’t catch his name."
The receptionist gives me a knowing look, then gestures toward the far wall.
I follow her hand?—
And my stomach drops.
There, just across the way, hangs an obnoxiously large, gilded frame.
A painting.
Of him.
Lucian.
Not a photo. A goddamn painting.
His powerful frame is captured in stunning detail—broad shoulders beneath a deep blue shirt, black slacks tailored to perfection, sleeves rolled up his forearms, revealing the tattoos I already know he’s proud of.
But it’s the eyes that get me.
Piercing. Sharp. Like they see everything.
Like they’re looking straight at me, even now.
A shiver races down my spine.
Lucian Vale.
The receptionist stands, moving with the kind of effortless grace I’ll never possess, and pulls a black folder from beneath the desk.
Ah.
A black ledger.
Of course.
She slides it toward me, along with a gold pen and a single sheet of paper.
"Sign this NDA first," she says smoothly. "You'll find out everything else in orientation."
I take the paper carefully, my fingers grazing the sleek surface. My eyes scan the document.
Standard legal jargon.
Nothing covered in orientation can be shared. No photos. No recordings. No discussions outside these walls.
A strict non-disclosure agreement, but nothing wildly different from corporate NDAs I’ve seen before.
Still, something about it unsettles me and something about this moment feels profound.
Like this is a turning point.
I could fold up the paper, hand it back, and walk out of here. I could forget about Lucian, the mystery, the goddamn painting that won’t stop looking at me.
Or.
I could sign my name and go find out whatever the hell this is.
The revolving doors spin behind me, the soft hush of movement pulling my attention.
A woman with long brown hair steps inside, pausing as a small group of three other women pass her. She waits, then follows at a measured pace, her red dress standing out like a beacon.
She smiles warmly when our eyes meet.
Something about it feels… reassuring .
Like maybe I’m not completely crazy for being here.
My gaze drifts back to the painting.
Lucian. Watching. Waiting.
He’s almost challenging me. Saying, “I bet you won’t.” With his sexy eyes and sharp jaw.
Well, watch me.
I exhale sharply, sign my name, and hand the NDA back to the receptionist.
She takes it without a word, then slides the black folder into my hands.
"You can go ahead and follow Elena," she says, nodding toward the woman in red. "She’ll be leading orientation today."
I tighten my grip on the folder and turn toward her.
My heels click against the sleek marble floor as I follow Elena across the vast, echoing lobby. The gold veining in the stone catches the light, leading my eyes upward to the impossibly high ceilings. This whole place exudes power and wealth, like it was designed to remind you exactly where you stand in the hierarchy of the world.
Elena presses the elevator button, and the gold-trimmed doors slide open in near silence.
As we step inside, I glance at her from the corner of my eye. She’s stunning—elegant yet approachable, the kind of woman who commands attention without demanding it. There’s a quiet confidence to her, something warm but knowing.
And when she smiles, it’s like she knows the joke everyone else does—except me.
The doors glide shut, and the elevator begins its smooth ascent.
“So,” she says, casually, as if she’s just making small talk. “You’re the girl Lucian picked himself.”
I stiffen slightly.
The way she says it—like it’s a thing.
"Well, I’m not exactly sure what I’m getting into here," I admit, shifting the black folder in my arms. “So, I’m not sure why that’s significant.”
Elena studies me for a beat before her lips curve again. That smile.
"Lucian is very busy. He hasn’t gotten into the selection process in several years, is all. It’s just… a rare event."
Rare event.
I swallow, unsure what the hell to do with that information.
"So… when was the last time he ‘picked’ someone?" I ask, my voice careful, because I have no idea how to phrase this.
Elena’s eyes flick to the doors, watching as the numbers above tick higher. Then she glances back at me, something amused and unreadable in her expression.
"When he hired me."
Oh.
She says it like it’s nothing, but her presence is still warm, steady—not threatening, not like this is some kind of competition.
And I appreciate that. It relaxes me, if only a bit.
The elevator chimes, the doors gliding open to reveal a sprawling room beyond.
Rows of sleek black chairs fill the space—about forty or fifty women, all of them stunning in their own unique way. Some are chatting, others scanning the room with sharp, calculating gazes.
I try not to panic-assess my place here.
Elena leads me forward, and before I can process anything else, a bombshell brunette steps into our path, grinning like she’s got juicy gossip to share.
“My bestie, Eve,” Elena introduces, warmth evident in her tone.
Eve’s sharp brown eyes sweep over me in one quick, efficient glance.
“Is this her?” Eve asks and Elena confirms with a sharp nod, smirking, her voice honeyed and confident. “Gorgeous.”
“You do know I can hear you?”
Eve’s smirk only grows. “And feisty. I like her already.”
And suddenly, my brain decides that maybe this is a modeling agency, and my first thought is…
I’m too short.
At 5’3, I’m basically hobbit-sized compared to some of these women. My heels give me a few extra inches, but still—not glamazon levels.
Elena gestures toward a long refreshment table against the far wall.
“We’ll be starting soon. Feel free to grab something before we begin.”
I’m actually thankful, because my nerves had kept me from eating earlier.
I move toward the table, grabbing a flaky croissant stuffed with ham and cheese, some fresh fruit, and a bottle of water that somehow looks expensive.
Even the damn bottled water is posh.
By the time I take my seat, Elena and Eve stand at the front of the room, their poised confidence silencing the low murmur of conversation.
The air shifts.
This is it.
The lights dim slightly, and a projector drops down behind them, sleek and precise.
Elena lifts a microphone, her easy smile never faltering.
“Welcome, ladies,” she begins, her voice smooth and polished.
I brace myself, waiting for some kind of explanation—something that makes any of this make sense.
And then the screen behind her lights up.
A bold, striking logo appears.
The Black Ledger.
Black and gold. Sleek. Polished. Powerful.
And then, as if the room needed another dramatic moment, Elena delivers the final bomb.
“Welcome to The Black Ledger—the world’s most elite and exclusive escort agency.”
My brain short-circuits.
Excuse me?