Chapter 5 5

The apartment was small, cramped, and smelled of dust. It was Elle's old place, the one she had kept but never visited in three years. Boxes were stacked floor to ceiling.

Bree kicked the door open, holding two bottles of champagne like grenades.

"Freedom!" she screamed.

Elle laughed. It sounded a little rusty. She took a bottle.

"Let's get wasted," she said.

For the next two hours, the three of them-Elle, Carlyn, and Bree-turned the tiny living room into a dressing room. Clothes flew through the air.

Bree held up a dress. It was silver, short, and consisted mostly of fringe and bad intentions.

"This one," Bree said. "It'll blind them."

Elle hesitated. Hunt hated short dresses. He said they lacked class.

She grabbed the silver dress. "Why not?"

She pulled it on. The fringe shimmied with every movement. In the mirror, with her dark smoky eye makeup and the glittering dress, she didn't look like Hunt Noble's girlfriend. She looked dangerous.

Her phone buzzed. A notification from her bank. The transfer from Noble Media had cleared.

Thirty million dollars.

She stared at the number. It felt like monopoly money. It felt like the price tag on her dignity.

She opened her email and sent a message to the gallery owner in SoHo regarding a painting she had admired years ago. An abstract piece, chaotic and colorful. The kind of art Hunt called "messy."

I'll take it, she typed.

"Uber's here!" Carlyn yelled.

They piled into the car, a tangle of limbs and perfume.

"What if he's there?" Bree asked from the front seat. "The Vault is his turf."

"New York is a big city," Elle said, staring out the window. "What are the odds?"

The odds, as it turned out, were one hundred percent.

The Vault was dark, loud, and vibrated with bass that rattled the teeth. But up in the VIP mezzanine, it was a different world.

Hunt sat in the shadows of the private booth. A glass of whiskey sat untouched in his hand. Across from him, three investment bankers were talking about mergers.

"So regarding the acquisition..." one of them droned.

"Hmm," Hunt grunted. His eyes were fixed on the entrance downstairs.

He was waiting. He hated himself for it, but he was waiting.

Preston stood in the corner, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.

The velvet ropes downstairs parted.

Elle walked in.

The disco lights hit her dress and she exploded into sparks. Silver fire. She threw her head back and laughed at something Bree said, her neck long and exposed.

Hunt's hand tightened around his glass until he feared it might shatter.

Lance Ford, a man Hunt had tolerated only because of his family's oil money, leaned over the railing.

"Whoa," Lance whistled. "Is that Elle Allison? Look at that."

Hunt turned his head slowly. He fixed Lance with a stare that could freeze magma.

"Don't," Hunt said.

Lance laughed, oblivious. "She's single now, right? Fair game."

"She's not game," Hunt said, his voice low.

"Relax, Noble. You threw her out. One man's trash..."

Hunt stood up. The chair scraped loudly against the floor. The bankers stopped talking.

Lance held up his hands. "Kidding. I'm going to get a drink."

He winked and headed for the stairs.

Hunt watched him go. Then he looked back at Elle. She was moving toward the dance floor, a beacon of light in the darkness.

She looked happy.

The sight made Hunt feel violent.