Chapter 8

The bass from the speakers vibrates through the floorboards, traveling up Adaline's legs and rattling her ribs.

It is Friday night. Adaline sits at the sticky bar of a crowded, neon-lit pub in Soho. She is wearing a black silk slip dress that clings to her curves, the thin straps barely holding the fabric up.

She lifts a shot glass of cheap tequila and throws it back. The alcohol burns a fiery path down her throat, making her cough, but it successfully numbs the edges of her anxiety.

Across the small circular table, Camilla Royce is nursing a vodka soda, looking at Adaline with a mixture of confusion and judgment. They are only here because the marketing group decided to celebrate finishing the proposal draft.

Adaline's phone vibrates on the wet table.

The screen lights up: Barron Cooke: Tomorrow at 7:00 PM. Shall I send a car to your apartment?

Adaline stares at the text. The polite, controlling tone makes her skin crawl.

She looks up from the phone and scans the crowded dance floor. The strobe lights flash, illuminating sweaty bodies. Her eyes lock onto a guy from her macroeconomics lecture. Chet Donnelly.

Chet is six-foot-two, built like a rugby player, with messy blond hair and a cocky smile. He is exactly the kind of loud, obnoxious frat-boy type that an old, refined billionaire would despise.

Adaline stands up. She smooths down the front of her silk dress.

"Watch my drink," she tells Camilla.

She weaves through the crowd, her heels clicking against the beer-stained floor. She approaches Chet, pasting a bright, flirty smile on her face.

Chet notices her immediately. His eyes drop to her neckline before snapping back up to her face. "Adaline. Didn't think this was your scene."

Adaline steps uncomfortably close to him. She has to shout over the music. "Chet! Do me a huge favor. Take a picture with me."

Chet grins, clearly taking this as an invitation. "Sure thing, gorgeous."

Adaline pulls out her phone and opens the camera. She turns her back to his chest. She grabs his thick arm and wraps it around her waist. She leans her head back so her cheek is pressed intimately against his jaw.

The red and blue neon lights wash over them, making the scene look incredibly illicit.

Adaline snaps the photo.

She immediately ducks out of his grip. "Thanks, Chet. You're a lifesaver."

Before he can try to keep her there, she turns and speed-walks back to the bar. Her heart is pounding with adrenaline.

She sits back on her stool. She opens WhatsApp.

She attaches the photo of her and Chet.

She types: Sorry, Mr. Cooke. I have to cancel our dinner tomorrow. My boyfriend just flew into London to surprise me for the weekend. He gets very jealous.

She hits send.

She stares at the screen, a wicked, triumphant smile playing on her lips. "Checkmate, old man," she whispers.

Three thousand miles away, in New York City.

The boardroom at the top of the Omni Corp tower is dead silent. The air pressure in the room is suffocatingly heavy.

Barron Cooke sits at the head of the long mahogany table. He is wearing a charcoal three-piece suit. His posture is relaxed, but his presence dominates the space.

A senior vice president is sweating profusely as he presents a quarterly loss report.

Barron's personal phone, resting face-up on the table, lights up.

He glances down.

His dark eyes lock onto the photo.

The vice president stutters and stops speaking. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.

Barron stares at the image of Adaline. He sees the thin silk dress. He sees the heavy, masculine hand resting intimately on her bare waist. He sees the flush on her cheeks.

A muscle in Barron's jaw feathers. His teeth clench together so tightly a faint clicking sound can be heard.

He knows she is lying. He had her background thoroughly checked. Her ex-boyfriend is Rhys Fallon, a dark-haired actor. The blonde boy in the photo is a prop.

But the fact that she let another man touch her waist just to spite him ignites a dark, violent possessiveness deep in his chest.

Barron slowly picks up his phone. He does not type a reply.

He presses a button on the intercom built into the table.

"Evelyn," his voice is a low, terrifying rumble.

The door opens instantly. His executive assistant, Evelyn, steps in. "Yes, Mr. Cooke?"

"Run facial recognition on the man in this photo. I want his name, his family background, and his current location," Barron commands, sliding the phone toward her. "And prep the Gulfstream. We are flying to London. Now."

Evelyn's eyes widen slightly, but she nods. "Right away, sir."

Back in London.

Adaline checks her phone. Ten minutes have passed. No reply.

She laughs out loud. She feels a massive weight lift off her shoulders. She actually did it. She scared him off.

"Bartender!" Adaline shouts, waving her hand. "A round of champagne! Put it on my tab!"

She turns to Camilla, her eyes sparkling with reckless joy.

Suddenly, a heavy body presses against her side.

Adaline flinches and turns. Chet is standing right next to her stool. He is holding two brightly colored cocktails.

"Since we took that couple's photo," Chet slurs slightly, his breath smelling of cheap beer, "I figured we should act like one."

He slides one of the cocktails across the wet bar top toward her. His eyes are dark and predatory.

Adaline's smile vanishes. A wave of disgust hits her. She leans back, creating distance.

"Back off, Chet," Adaline says, her voice cold and sharp. "It was just a photo. Leave me alone."

Chet's face hardens. His pride is visibly wounded. He glares at her for a second, then scoffs. "Stuck-up bitch."

He turns and shoves his way back into the crowd, leaving the brightly colored cocktail sitting on the bar next to Adaline's empty tequila glass.

Adaline rolls her eyes. She turns back to Camilla to complain about him.

In the chaotic, flashing lights of the pub, she does not notice the bartender, Marco, who had been watching the exchange. Catching a subtle, paid-off nod from Chet in the crowd, Marco casually reaches over and swaps the position of her empty tequila glass with the spiked cocktail Chet had left behind.