Chapter 1 1

The revolving door of Le Coucou was heavy. It required a push, a commitment she wasn't sure she had the strength to make.

Her reflection in the glass was a ghost. A grey wool dress that fell below her knees. A shirt buttoned so high it choked her. No makeup. She looked like a nun who had lost her faith and her way.

If you don't fix this with Mr. Jareth tonight, you're on the street.

Aunt Lydia's voice was a drill in her temple. It wasn't a memory; it was a physical vibration in her skull.

She pushed the glass. The warm air of the restaurant hit her, smelling of brown butter and expensive perfume. It made her stomach turn.

A maître d' blocked her path. He scanned her, his eyes lingering on the scuffed toes of her shoes. She looked down. Eye contact was a currency she couldn't afford.

She held out the slip of paper. Her fingers were shaking so badly the paper rattled.

"Table twelve," he said. His tone suggested she should be at the service entrance.

She followed him. The noise of the dining room was a physical weight. Laughter. The clink of silver on china. It was a sea of people who belonged, parting for a girl who was drowning.

We reached the corner. Table twelve.

A man was already there. His back was to her. Broad shoulders. A suit jacket that didn't wrinkle.

Her breath hitched. Jareth was supposed to be a loan shark. A thug. This man looked like he owned the bank.

She sat down. Her knees hit the table leg with a clumsy thud.

The man turned.

The air left her lungs. He wasn't old. He wasn't oily. He was... sharp. His jawline could cut glass. His eyes were the color of a stormy ocean, dark and turbulent.

He held a copy of the Financial Times. He lowered it slowly, his gaze dissecting her. It felt like a medical scan. He saw the sweat on her upper lip. He saw the tremor in her hands.

She started to stand up. Wrong table. Run.

"Sit," he said.

The word was a command, not a request. His voice was low, vibrating through the oak table. "Unless you want to cause a scene."

She fell back into the chair. Her throat closed up. The familiar paralysis. The silence.

Over his shoulder, she saw movement near the restrooms. A large man in a flashy, ill-fitting suit was scanning the room. He looked angry. He looked like a Jareth.

The man across from her didn't turn around. He simply raised two fingers.

A waiter appeared instantly. The man in the suit whispered something. The waiter went pale. He nodded, a sharp, terrified jerk of the head.

She watched as the waiter intercepted the real Jareth. He spoke urgently. Jareth looked confused, then furious, then defeated. He was steered toward the exit like unwanted trash.

She looked back at the man across from her. Her mouth opened, but only silence came out. The question screamed in her head, a frantic, voiceless cry. Who are you?

He didn't answer the question she hadn't asked. He slid a menu across the white tablecloth.

"Order. Your blood sugar is crashing. Your hands are shaking."

It wasn't concern. It was a diagnosis.

She picked up the menu. She used it as a shield, hiding her face. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. This man was dangerous. More dangerous than Jareth. Jareth would break her legs. This man looked like he could dismantle her life without touching her.

His phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at it.

Acquisition: 98%.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. He looked at her then. There was no lust in his eyes. There was only the satisfaction of a hunter who had just heard the trap snap shut. His presence here wasn't a coincidence. It was an ambush.

"I'll have the green salad," she whispered. It was the only thing she could afford if he decided to leave her with the bill. A pathetic attempt at control in a situation where she had none.

He took the menu from her hands. He handed it to the waiter.

"Filet mignon. Rare. And a glass of warm water with lemon."

"I don't drink alcohol," she said. Her voice was barely audible.

"I know," he said. "You don't look like a drinker."

The food arrived. They ate in silence. His movements were precise. Surgical. He cut his steak with an efficiency that was almost terrifying.

When the check came, she reached for her purse. She had forty dollars in crumpled bills. It was everything she had, a pathetic sum that couldn't even cover the appetizer. The rest of her earnings, the real money, was locked away where Lydia couldn't find it-an untouchable fortune that was useless to the girl about to be thrown onto the street.

He had already placed a card on the tray. It was black. Heavy. No numbers.

"Why?" she asked. The word scraped her throat. "Why help her?"

He stood up. He buttoned his jacket. He towered over her, blocking out the light of the restaurant.

"Because you need a husband," he said. "And I need a wife. Since the loan shark is out of the running, you should consider me."