Chapter 3
THREE
MAVEN
“So, I know you never go to these things, and usually I would never allow you to be there, but I desperately need some backup,” Carrie says after letting herself into my apartment, not even bothering to knock.
She pauses just inside the doorway, smoothing her hands down the sides of her black dress like she’s already stepping into the night, not my space.
I eye her as she strides past me and into my closet where she scans the contents.
She doesn’t hesitate, never does, and heads straight for my shoe wall, fingers trailing lightly over the rows like she’s greeting old friends.
Luckily for her, we’re the same shoe size.
I don’t think she’s ever bought a pair of shoes in her life.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, relaxing on the velvet couch I have in the middle of my closet, one arm draped lazily over the back and my legs crossed at the ankles. I’m watching her like she’s entertainment.
Where does all my money go, you ask? Into this room; my wall of expensive shoes proves that.
“You know how I go to the galas,” she starts, already crouching to scan the lower shelves, her hair falling forward over her shoulder.
“Yeeesss…” I drag the word out, raising a brow at her.
“Well, I never go alone; that would be stupid,” she says with an eye roll, as if I should already understand.
She plucks a pair of pink red-bottom heels from the shelf and then slips them on without asking.
She straightens, rolling her shoulders back, balancing perfectly in the sky-high heels, then glances down at her feet. She smiles, happy with herself.
“Bailey asked that I bring someone for his friend.”
I let out a short huff of a laugh, shaking my head as I sit forward slightly, elbows resting on my knees. “And you honestly think you should bring me?”
She turns to look at me. Her hand goes to her hip as she locks her gaze with mine. “Yes. You never have fun.”
I lean forward more, brows pulling together. “I do have fun.”
She shakes her head. “Killing is not something you should consider fun,” she says, her expression flattening into something more serious.
The playfulness drops just enough to notice.
“You know I don’t ask you to go to any of this kind of stuff because this is where I get connections,” she continues, pacing a few slow steps across the closet now, heels clicking softly against the floor.
“And I know you don’t like to have anything to do with what I do.
” She glances back at me over her shoulder, watching for a reaction.
She’s right. While clients have to go through her to hire me, they also don’t know it’s her who does the hiring.
You see, when she communicates with potential clients, most think it’s a man they’re speaking to.
Not only does she disguise her voice when she talks to them, but she plays the innocent act well.
Some assume she’s just the first point of contact, wholly unaware that they’ll be dealing with her throughout the entire process.
“But please,” she adds, turning fully back to me now, her tone shifting again, softer but calculated.
She steps closer, closing the distance between us.
“I like Bailey,” she says, as if that should matter, her fingers brushing lightly over the back of a chair before she stops.
“And I did have another person lined up to accompany me.” She exhales, her shoulders dropping just slightly. “She pulled out on me, though.”
I study her for a second, my head tilting as I lean back again, tapping my fingers against my knee. “I have nothing to wear,” I finally say.
She freezes mid-step, then her eyes narrow just slightly. She lets out a short, disbelieving scoff, shaking her head while a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “You do; don’t lie.”
I smile back, just a little. Of course I have something to wear. I love clothes, though not as much as I love heels; don’t get that fact twisted. She crosses her arms now, shifting her weight onto one hip, waiting me out like she knows she already won.
“How long do I have to get ready?” I ask on a sigh.
“Twenty minutes. I’m already late.”
“Fucking hell, Carrie,” I grumble, getting up.
She grabs a pair of blue heels that match the color of my hair. “Wear these with whatever dress you pick.”
“I haven’t broken those in yet,” I tell her, then shrug my shoulders with a grin. “Guess tonight is the night I do.”
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” I whine as we wait outside the gala entrance. Her date, Bailey, is late even though we were running late ourselves. Quite rude, if you ask me, especially since we can’t get in without him. Invite only, or some shit.
The building in front of me gleams under the city lights, its facade a mix of sleek glass panels and ornate stonework, the kind of architecture that screams money and prestige.
Red carpets run up the steps, flanked by velvet ropes and uniformed door attendants.
And to think I could be home right now, in my pajamas.
Instead, I’m here, watching women in gowns that shimmer as they sweep past. Men in bespoke suits adjust their cuffs, oozing a polished charm as they offer hands to their escorts.
The scent of expensive perfume drifts in the air, mingling with the faint exhaust from the cars.
And here I am, standing off to the side, annoyed, slightly out of place, and taking it all in. Waiting.
I fucking hate waiting.
“I forgot to tell you something,” Carrie says.
“What?” I glance at her, shifting my weight slightly as my shoes pinch my toes. The ground beneath my feet is too hard, every step a reminder that beauty is pain.
“We signed NDAs to be here. It’s very exclusive, okay?”
I turn my head toward her slowly, narrowing my eyes. “You mean you signed for me?” I ask.
“Well, yes.” She waves a hand dismissively, completely unbothered. “I do run your life, so of course I signed for you.” She smiles, pleased with herself, just as someone calls her name.
We both turn to Bailey as he approaches.
“You said it was a gala,” I murmur under my breath as I scan the entrance again—the security, the person checking the guest list, the way people are being scrutinized before being let in.
“It is … of sorts,” she says just before Bailey reaches her and pulls her into his arms. I stand there as he kisses her, tongue and all, and try not to dry heave at their public display of affection.
When they finally part, Bailey turns to look at me.
He’s an accountant, and an excellent one with connections, or so Carrie says.
“This is Maven,” Carrie says to Bailey, who still has her locked in his grasp.
“Delicious,” he says, and Carrie’s gaze slides to me as I raise a brow. “Boston should be here any moment,” Bailey adds, glancing down the street.
I follow his gaze. The night stretches out, the city lit by streetlamps and the glow of lights behind windows, cars occasionally passing, headlights briefly cutting across the polished stone and blacked-out windows. Conversations hum around us, but my focus sharpens, instincts pulling tight.
Then a car pulls up to the curb. It’s not flashy or loud.
It idles for half a second before the engine cuts off, then the driver’s side door opens.
And something in me snaps to attention when a man steps out.
Is that Boston? One foot hits the pavement, then the other, unfolding to his full height in a way that draws the eye without asking for it.
He doesn’t rush, doesn’t hesitate, just shuts the door behind him with a quiet, solid snick, and adjusts his cuff as if this is routine.
Bailey lifts a hand, waving him over.
I take him in slowly.
He’s tall, taller than most, and built solidly, without being excessive.
Broad shoulders, straight posture, the kind of presence that comes from knowing exactly what your body can do.
His clothes are simple compared to the other attendees—a dark-blue, long-sleeve shirt, sleeves rolled just enough at the wrists, and black dress pants, sans jacket and tie.
It should make him look out of place.
It doesn’t.
If anything, it makes everyone else appear overdone.
He glances up, and everything narrows. His eyes are sharp, cold, the color of gunmetal, and he glances around quickly at first, scanning the area. He spots Bailey, then his gaze shifts, moving past Carrie, and lands on me.
It’s instant; a quiet, internal click. My body reacts before I can think it through, my shoulders pulling back slightly, my frame tensing, my attention locking on him completely.
He starts walking toward us, each step steady and unhurried, as if he already knows exactly how this interaction will go.
Like he’s done this a hundred times before.
I don’t look away. I want to see if he breaks the connection first. He doesn’t.
By the time he reaches us, the area around us feels smaller, somehow tighter, as though something unseen settles between us.
“This is Maven,” Bailey says to him.
Boston stops in front of us, close enough now that I can see details—the sharp lines of his face, the controlled set of his mouth, the complete lack of wasted movement. He looks at me—really looks at me—as if he’s measuring me. We hold eye contact for a beat too long for strangers.
Then—
“Not interested.” His words are immediate, final. I blink once, slowly, my head tilting just slightly as something cold settles beneath my skin.
What? No hello?
My lips press together, the faintest edge of a smile threatening, not amused, not warm.
How fucking rude.
“Boston, come on, man. Loosen up a little. Tonight is all about fun,” Bailey argues lightly.
“No,” Boston says, his gaze sliding over me one more time before he moves to the doors that wouldn’t allow us in when we arrived. They open for him, and he goes straight through.
“He’ll warm up to you,” Bailey says to me. “Let’s go, ladies. Are we ready to have some fun?” he adds, and slides a hand across my shoulder.