Chapter 8 #2
I shoved the anxiety down and told myself to stop spiraling. Maybe he'd worked here before and knew people. Maybe this was normal in rich-people land.
I lifted my water and took a sip, then looked out at the windows.
And I waited.
One piano piece slid into the next. The sommelier came by three times. Every time, I waved him off and said, "I'm still waiting on my guest." Outside, the sky went from deep indigo to ink. The city lights sharpened, brighter and brighter.
I checked my phone.
Forty minutes.
I checked again.
An hour.
An hour twenty.
The neckline of that black dress started to feel cold against my skin. I clenched my phone in my palm. The screen stayed empty—no messages. The "I'm here" I'd sent Mr. X didn't even show read.
And all the pieces I'd forced down started floating back up.
Matthew getting "invited" away by two men in suits.
That juice that had appeared out of nowhere.
My supervisor coming downstairs to meet me in person.
Carol suddenly stopping her bullshit. And now—this private room lit up for one person, and a manager who'd bowed like I was royalty.
It piled up, heavy on my chest.
I pulled up Samantha's number and called.
"Babe!" She picked up fast. A TV murmured in the background. "Didn't think you'd still remember your poor best friend. And I have no idea what asshole has you this hypnotized—honestly, it hurts my feelings..."
"Okay, okay, Sam." I tried to keep my voice normal. "Stop."
"What happened? Who pissed you off? I'll go kick his balls through his teeth." She caught the drop in me instantly. She always did. Nothing got past her.
I didn't want her worried, so I tried to sound light. "Nothing. It's just... you know. You show up, but your date disappears. That kind of thing."
"Which son of a bitch stood you up? I'll kill him."
"It's nothing. Maybe it's just the way those escorts are—just play roles for a living. I took it too seriously. I'm fine, Samantha. Really..."
"Escort? What escort? Wait—are you talking about him? The one I booked?"
"Yeah. Didn't you give him my number?"
"What?" Samantha sounded genuinely confused. "No. Why would I give him your number? That stuff's one-and-done, babe. You pay, you get the service, everybody moves on. Nobody keeps contact."
My stomach sank.
"You're sure? Think about it. Maybe you mentioned it—"
"I don't have to think, Hailey." She laughed.
"Honestly, I even called that agency the next day to ask for feedback—pure curiosity, okay?
I wanted to know if you had a good time.
And they told me he never even met the client.
He sat in Room 2004 all night. No one knocked. They refunded half my money."
My fingers went ice-cold.
"What did you just say?"
"I said he stood you up!" Samantha said, like it was obvious. "I figured you just got drunk and passed out alone. Why are you asking me this now?"
2004.
But that night, I'd knocked on 2002.
I'd thought I'd been too drunk and mixed up the numbers.
I'd thought the blond man who'd opened the door was the escort Samantha meant—just one of her usual chaotic choices.
I'd built that whole night, the insanity, the man who'd pinned me to the wall and made me say, ruin me, the "Mr. X" I'd been texting for three weeks, the one I'd gotten off to with his pictures—
I'd built all of it on a wrong door number.
That man had never been an escort.
"Hailey? Hello? You there?" Samantha's voice crackled through the phone. "Say something. What is it? Are you—oh my God. What happened, honey?"
"I-I'll call you later."
I hung up like I was running from a fire.
The glittering Manhattan night outside the windows looked painfully bright now. Alien.
So who was he?
I'd slept with a stranger—one I didn't know at all, one who'd hidden his real identity—and I'd handed him every ugly, soft part of my life. My ex harassing me. My landlord threatening me. My team lead grinding me down. Every desperate want I'd ever had to be loved.
And I didn't even know his name.
All my guesses had been right.
A man with more money and power than I could even picture.
And that kind of man had brought me to a place like this and then—stood me up.
I'd sat in this empty room, lit up for me alone, for a full hour and a half.
A sick thought crawled up through me, slow and mean.
What if this had all been a game? Some rich, bored bastard with too much time, picking a normal girl—stupid, easy to fool—just to watch me get dazzled walking into his trap.
To watch me show up in my cheap dress, sitting here with hope in my throat, waiting like an idiot.
To watch me leave alone, cheeks burning, trying not to look destroyed.
To him, it was probably just entertainment.
And I was the punchline.
My nose stung. Heat rushed into my eyes without warning.
No.
Don't cry here. Not on a stage built to humiliate you.
I dug my nails into my palm until it hurt, forced the tears back, and took a breath. I grabbed my purse off the chair and stood.
I'm leaving. Now. Immediately.
The second I straightened, the chair legs dragging a dull sound across the carpet—
The door swung open.
The manager hurried in, sweat shining on his forehead. The calm, polished act from earlier was gone. He rushed up to me and bowed—deep, deeper—his waist nearly a right angle.
"Ms. Woods, I am truly sorry to have kept you waiting." He held something out with both hands. "This was prepared for you."
A deep green velvet box. Palm-sized, but heavy enough that his hands dipped.
Before I could react, my phone buzzed.
I looked down.
A new message.
Mr. X: Sorry, my girl. Something came up last minute that I had to handle. Take this as my apology. I have someone sent to take you home.
I stared at the words, then at the velvet box hovering in front of me.
I reached out. My fingers shook a little as I lifted the lid.
Inside, a necklace lay in dark green lining. A platinum chain thin as a thread of light. At the center hung a massive emerald, cut sharp and clean, glowing low under the room's lamps—green as someone's eyes.
I'd never seen anything that expensive in my life. It looked unreal. My first instinct was to snap the box shut and shove it back.
This was an apology?
For standing me up all night?
I held the box, my head turning to noise—confusion, shame, hurt, and this dizzy feeling like something huge had dropped over me, and I couldn't see the edges of it. I turned and drifted to the windows, needing air, needing to see the street below, something real.
I looked down.
And my entire body locked.
At the grand front entrance of the restaurant, SUVs lined the curb—black, identical, parked in a neat row.
Under the streetlights, their bodies threw back a hard, cold shine.
Even from dozens of floors up, the pressure of them felt heavy.
Silent. Wrong. Beside each vehicle stood a man in a black suit, built like a tower, perfectly still.
They weren't waiting for someone else.
They had their heads tilted up, looking toward this building.
Like they were waiting for me.
Oh my God.
Every hair on my body rose.
Everything about tonight felt like a ridiculous dream.
But I know it wasn't.
It was real.
A reality I couldn't understand—power and danger, stitched together.
That man—Mr. X—wasn't some ordinary escort.
He wasn't even some ordinary rich guy.
He was the kind of man who could send a squad of guards that looked like special forces.
Who the hell was he?
I didn't know.
But I was already in it, way too deep, and I couldn't pull myself out.