Chapter 5
Five
For a while, things became easy.
Everyone was warm and welcoming—especially Thomas and Trisha, who proudly proclaimed themselves as TnT—a little spark, a whole lot of boom. They were funny in that dry, unpolished way that made me feel like I belonged, even though I absolutely didn’t.
Still, I smiled more than I meant to. Laughed too easily. And somewhere between the third course and dessert, I caught myself leaning in when Dean spoke, watching the way his mouth curved around words like I was trying to memorize them.
There was a hum between us all night—low and constant.
An energy, I pretended not to notice but felt all the same.
It was in the way his fingers brushed the small of my back when no one was looking.
The way his eyes found mine across the table and didn’t look away.
The way his voice dipped when he spoke to me, as though every word was meant just for me.
I wasn’t used to being treated like that. And I hated how much I liked it.
As night wound down, we were the last ones lingering near the bar, the party still buzzing in the background. Dean leaned against the counter, watching me as if he wasn’t ready to let the night end either.
“You should come with me,” he said quietly, taking a sip of the water he’d insisted we switch to over an hour ago.
I was digging through my bag, searching for the valet ticket I’d misplaced. “Where?” I asked, half distracted.
“The retreat. Pine Ridge.”
I let out a short laugh. “Yeah, no. Not happening.”
“I’ll pay you.”
That made me pause. My fingers stilled inside my bag, a tight pinch blooming in my chest.
I glanced up slowly, something sharp settling in my ribs. I shook my head—more at myself than at him. I’d been too comfortable tonight. Too at ease. I’d forgotten, just for a little while, who I was. What this was.
“I don’t do overnights,” I said, flat and even. He would’ve known that if he’d actually read my contract.
No overnights.
No sex.
No kissing unless I initiated it.
It was all there—page two, clearly outlined under Personal Boundaries.
“Name your price,” he said.
“Dean—”
“Ten thousand.” When I didn’t respond, he kept going. “Fifteen.”
I inhaled sharply, because that kind of money...
It would change things.
Rent. Bills. Groceries without anxiety. A cushion I’d never had before.
“Twenty,” he murmured, as though he could see me slipping and wanted to catch me before I hit the ground.
But instead of tempting me, it snapped me back to reality.
Because the higher his price climbed, the clearer it all became.
Dean didn’t think my rules applied to him. He thought another zero would make them disappear.
Sure, I could spend a week smiling, clinking glasses, pretending. I could keep things light and easy. I could ignore the way Dean’s hand made my pulse skip, or how my stomach twisted every time he looked at me like that.
I could do it.
But I wouldn’t.
Because the money wasn’t the problem.
The problem was the way I already leaned toward him without meaning to. The way I liked him too damned much—and I knew better than anyone how dangerous that could be.
I finally found the valet ticket and closed my bag with a snap.
“Sorry,” I said, forcing a smile. “I’m not for sale.”
I turned on my heel. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Dean Weston.”
“Em, please.”
I stopped.
The sound of my name—my name, not Vivienne—froze me in place.
Slowly, I turned to face him, heat crawling across my chest like a warning flare. “What did you just call me?”
Dean’s lips pressed into a firm line as if he hadn’t meant to say it, as if the name had slipped out before he could stop it. But it was already out there, and I could see the truth in his face.
I stepped closer, my voice low. “How did you know my name?”
I went to great lengths to keep that part of me hidden. To stay anonymous. Safe. And the fact that he knew—really knew—who I was? It chilled me to the bone.
I’d spent years covering my tracks. I never used my real name online.
My business was registered under an alias, payments filtered through encrypted processors and dummy accounts.
I paid monthly for layered VPNs, premium firewalls, even private domain masking services that scrubbed metadata before it could ever be traced.
My photos were stripped of location data, my email routed through an end-to-end.
No one—not clients, not colleagues—ever knew more than what I allowed.
And yet, somehow, he’d found me.
“I know a guy,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
I stared. “A guy.”
He nodded once. “A private investigator. He traced it through your website.”
I blinked, a chill running through me. “My website is private.”
Dean met my gaze, steady and unapologetic. “Nothing is private, Em.”
The air thinned between us. The room seemed to shrink until every sound—every heartbeat—echoed too loudly in my ears.
“You have to understand,” he said softly. “I couldn’t bring you here without knowing who you really are. This is too important to me.”
But I didn’t understand.
I’d spent years building walls, separating my name from my past, my truth from my work. And with a single choice, Dean had gone around every barrier I’d built.
My throat tightened. “Don’t call me again.”
“Em—”
I turned, my heels striking the marble in sharp, uneven bursts.
“Em!” he called again.
But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.
Because for the first time in years, I wasn’t in control.
And that terrified me.