Got You: The Billionaire's Little Liar

The icy wind of the Manhattan alleyway cut through Alya Klein's thin silk dress. She shivered violently, her teeth chattering as she pulled the stolen waiter's vest over her shoulders. The rough fabric scratched her bare skin, a stark contrast to the designer clothes she usually wore.

She buttoned up the black vest with trembling fingers. The topmost plastic button felt like ice against her skin. She took a deep breath, trying to slow the frantic beating of her heart. It hammered against her ribs, so loud she thought the security guards at the front entrance of The Belvedere Club might hear it.

Alya reached into her expensive leather handbag. Her fingers brushed against her makeup compact before finding what she needed. She pulled out an antique Cartier hairpin. The cold gold and tiny diamonds bit into her fingertips. She gathered her long, dark hair, twisting it into a tight, severe bun at the nape of her neck, and secured it with the heavy pin.

She crouched down, her knees popping in the cold. She shoved her designer bag into a dark, greasy gap behind a large green dumpster. The smell of rotting food made her stomach turn. She prayed no one would steal it. It held her ID and her last credit card.

Alya stood up and smoothed down the front of the black skirt. She raised her chin, forcing her facial muscles to relax into a blank, professional mask. She didn't hesitate. She pushed her weight against the heavy metal door of the employee entrance.

The door clicked open. The noise and heat of the industrial kitchen hit her like a physical blow. The air smelled of searing meat, garlic, and expensive truffles. The clatter of heavy ceramic plates and the shouting of chefs instantly drowned out the ringing in her ears.

A heavy-set chef with sweat pouring down his red face turned around. He held a massive steel pan. His eyes narrowed as he stared at her unfamiliar face.

Alya immediately looked down. She grabbed a white towel from a nearby counter and wiped her hands on the black apron she had tied around her waist. She kept her eyes glued to the wet floor tiles, avoiding his gaze entirely.

She walked fast. Her black flats squeaked slightly on the grease-slicked floor. She weaved through the prep stations, her eyes fixed on the silver doors of the service elevator at the far end of the kitchen.

She was almost there. Ten feet. Five feet.

Suddenly, a tall man in a sharp grey suit stepped out from a corner hallway. He blocked her path completely. A gold name tag on his lapel read: Leland Vance, Floor Manager.

Leland frowned. His sharp eyes scanned her cheap uniform, then settled on the generic plastic name tag she had pinned to her chest.

"You," Leland snapped. "Why aren't you serving in the main dining room on the first floor? We are short-staffed down there."

Alya's palms started to sweat. The moisture made her fingers slip against the fabric of her skirt. She swallowed hard, forcing her throat to open.

"Mr. Quentin reassigned me," Alya lied. Her voice was steady, though her stomach tied into a tight knot. "He told me to bring a specific vintage up to the private rooms. An emergency request."

Leland's frown deepened. He looked her up and down, his eyes full of suspicion. He reached for the black walkie-talkie clipped to his belt.

"Quentin didn't mention any reassignments on the radio," Leland said, his thumb pressing the button on the device.

Alya stopped breathing. Her lungs burned. If he called Quentin, she was finished. The massive breach of contract fee would destroy her father's company by morning.

A loud crash shattered the tension. Three feet away, a young waiter slipped on a puddle of spilled sauce. A massive silver tray holding a pyramid of champagne glasses hit the floor. Glass shattered everywhere. Champagne sprayed across Leland's polished leather shoes.

Leland cursed loudly, dropping his walkie-talkie. He spun around to scream at the terrified waiter.

Alya didn't waste a second. She ducked her head, muttered a quick apology to the empty air, and slipped past Leland. She lunged into the open service elevator.

She slammed her hand against the 'Close Door' button. She pressed it five times, her breath coming in short, harsh gasps. The metal doors slid shut just a fraction of a second before Leland turned his head back toward her.

Alya leaned against the cold metal wall of the elevator. She let out a long, shaky breath. Her legs felt like jelly.

The elevator jerked and began its slow ascent. Alya pulled her phone from her skirt pocket. Her fingers left sweaty smudges on the screen. She opened the text message from her best friend, Kenzie. It was a crude floor plan of the 17th floor.

The elevator stopped. A soft ding echoed in the small space. The doors slid open slowly.

The air on the 17th floor was entirely different. It smelled of rich mahogany and expensive cigars. The hallway was covered in a thick, dark red velvet carpet that swallowed all sound. The silence was heavy, almost suffocating.

At the far end of the long corridor stood two massive oak doors. Two men in tailored black suits stood in front of them. They were huge, their shoulders broad, earpieces curled behind their ears.

Alya bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. She walked over to a wooden service cart parked near the elevator. A single, unopened bottle of vintage Romanée-Conti sat on a silver tray, alongside a crystal glass.

She picked up the heavy silver tray. She kept her head bowed, staring at the red carpet. She forced her legs to move in a steady, measured pace toward the guards.

As she approached, the guard on the left stepped forward. He raised a thick, muscular arm, blocking the double doors.

"Stop," the guard grunted. "Show me your 17th-floor access pass."

Alya didn't stop immediately. She took one more step and intentionally let her left wrist dip. The silver tray tilted sharply. The priceless bottle of Romanée-Conti slid toward the edge.

The guard's eyes widened. He instinctively lunged forward, his hands reaching out to catch the bottle before it smashed on the floor.

Alya righted the tray at the last possible second. She looked up at the guard, her eyes wide, playing the part of a stressed, overworked servant.

"Please," Alya whispered, making her voice sound sweet and desperate. "The VIP guest inside is losing his patience. If this wine is late, he will complain to management. Are you going to take the blame for making him wait?"

The guard froze. He heard the words "VIP guest." His eyes darted to the other guard. They shared a look of pure hesitation. Nobody wanted to anger the men who rented the 17th floor.

The guard on the right slowly lowered his arm. He pressed a finger to his earpiece and muttered something too low for Alya to hear. He nodded once, then turned and pushed open the heavy oak door.

Alya forced her facial muscles to remain still. She gave a small, polite nod to the guards.

She stepped over the brass threshold. Her shoes sank into the even thicker carpet inside the room. She walked into the dim, luxurious VIP lounge.

The heavy oak door clicked shut behind her, sealing her inside.

Alya slowly raised her head. Across the massive room, standing in front of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city lights, was a tall man. His broad back was turned to her.

She gripped the edges of the silver tray. Her target was right in front of her.

Alya walked from the doorway toward the center of the room. Her flat shoes made absolutely no sound on the thick, imported rug.

She reached the large marble coffee table in the middle of the lounge. She bent her knees slightly and placed the heavy silver tray onto the cold stone surface. She didn't look at the wine. Her eyes were locked onto the broad back of the man standing by the window.

He wore a dark suit. Even from a distance, Alya could tell the fabric was custom-spun wool, tailored perfectly to his wide shoulders and narrow waist. He held a heavy crystal glass, pouring amber liquid from a decanter.

Alya's mind raced. She replayed the information Kenzie had given her over the phone. Brenton Trevino-Duncan. A useless playboy from a branch family. He had been exiled to Miami but was in New York for the weekend. Kenzie said he was an idiot who thought with his lower half and loved aggressive women.

Alya took a slow breath. Her chest rose and fell. She reached up to the collar of her stolen waiter's vest. Her fingers found the top button. She unfastened it. Then the second. She pulled the fabric apart slightly, exposing the delicate black lace edge of her expensive silk camisole underneath.

She cleared her throat.

"Mr. Trevino-Duncan," Alya said. She pitched her voice low, making it sound sweet and thick with suggestion.

The man's hand stopped moving. The amber liquid stopped flowing into the glass. He stood perfectly still, but he did not turn around.

Alya frowned slightly. She thought he was playing hard to get. She let go of the vest. She walked around the edge of the leather sofa, closing the distance between them. She stopped just a few feet to his right side.

The man turned slowly. He held the whiskey glass in his right hand. He looked down at her.

Alya tilted her head up. The moment she saw his face, her heart slammed against her ribs and skipped a beat.

He was devastatingly handsome, but his features were sharp, cut like cold marble. His jawline was rigid. His eyes were a dark, endless black. They held no warmth, no lust, no amusement. They were the eyes of a predator looking at a very small, very stupid animal. The sheer physical presence of the man radiated a crushing, suffocating pressure.

Alya felt a cold sweat break out on the back of her neck. A thought flashed through her mind: How could a useless Miami playboy have eyes that terrifying?

But the thought vanished as quickly as it came. She looked at his perfect face and the expensive cut of his suit. She told herself it didn't matter. He was just a man. She could play this game. If she had to sleep with him to get the European silk contract, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

Alya forced a bright, confident smile onto her lips.

"I know who you are," Alya said directly. "And I know what you control. I want the exclusive rights to the European vintage silk supply. I want to buy it."

Dominick narrowed his dark eyes. He stared at the woman standing in front of him. He didn't blink. He didn't speak a single word. He just watched her, his expression completely blank.

Alya waited for a response. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. She assumed he was waiting for her to offer the 'extra' payment Kenzie had warned her about.

She took a bold step forward. She crossed the invisible line of personal space, bringing her body dangerously close to his. She could smell his cologne now-a sharp, cold scent of cedar and expensive tobacco.

She lifted her right hand. Her slender fingers reached out and gently rested against the knot of his dark silk tie.

Dominick looked down. He stared at her pale hand resting against his chest. His eyes were dead, devoid of any human emotion. He looked at her hand as if it were a disease he was about to cut off.

Alya felt a chill run down her spine under his gaze, but she ignored it. She slowly dragged her fingertips up the smooth silk of his tie, stopping just below his collar.

She rose onto her tiptoes. She leaned in, bringing her lips inches from his ear.

"I can pay the market price," Alya whispered, her breath warm against his skin. "And I can offer you... anything else you might want. Any price."

Dominick's lips twitched. A slow, cruel smile formed on his mouth. It didn't reach his eyes.

"Are you sure about that?" Dominick asked. His voice was a low, rough gravel that vibrated in his chest.

Alya heard the deep, sensual tone of his voice. The tips of her ears flushed hot. She didn't hesitate. She nodded her head.

She pressed her chest lightly against his solid, muscular torso. She tilted her head back, offering her neck, trying to use every ounce of her physical charm to secure the deal.

Dominick's fingers tightened around the crystal whiskey glass. His knuckles turned stark white under the skin.

Suddenly, he moved. He slammed the heavy glass down onto the marble windowsill. The sharp crack of crystal hitting stone echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Alya flinched. Her eyelashes fluttered, startled by the sudden violence of the sound. But she kept her hands on his chest, maintaining her seductive pose.

Dominick raised his left hand. His long, strong fingers hovered in the air near her face.

Alya closed her eyes. Her lips parted slightly in a smile. She thought he was going to touch her cheek. She thought she had won.

The touch never came to her face.

Instead, Dominick's hand shot down like a striking snake. His large fingers wrapped around her slender wrist, locking onto her bones with the crushing force of a steel trap.

The pain was instant and blinding. Dominick's grip on Alya's wrist was brutal. His fingers dug into her fragile bones, cutting off the blood circulation.

Alya gasped, a sharp intake of air that burned her throat. Her eyes snapped open. She stared up into his face. The dark eyes looking back at her were filled with pure, freezing violence.

She yanked her arm backward, trying to pull her hand free. It was useless. Trying to break his grip was like trying to pull her arm out of solid concrete.

Dominick didn't even flinch at her struggle. He suddenly twisted his body and pulled her arm hard to the side.

He used her own momentum against her. Alya's center of gravity vanished. She cried out in shock as her feet tangled together. She fell forward, her body crashing into the edge of the large leather sofa.

Before she could push herself up, Dominick moved. His large body followed her down, a massive shadow blocking out the light from the windows.

He shoved her flat onto her back against the leather cushions. He grabbed her other wrist with his free hand. In one fluid, violent motion, he pinned both of her arms above her head, pressing her wrists deep into the soft leather of the sofa back.

Alya panicked. Her chest heaved as she kicked her legs and twisted her torso. She fought wildly, but her struggles only caused her stolen skirt to ride up her thighs and her unbuttoned vest to slip off her shoulders.

Dominick loomed over her. His chest hovered inches from hers, but none of his body weight rested on her. He held her there entirely with the strength of his arms. He stared down at her face. There was zero lust in his expression. He was examining her the way a butcher examines a piece of meat.

He lowered his head. His cold breath brushed against the shell of her ear.

"Your methods are incredibly cheap," Dominick whispered. His voice was flat, devoid of any heat, making the insult cut deeper.

Alya froze. The terrifying aura radiating from his body paralyzed her vocal cords. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her entire body began to shake, fine tremors running through her limbs.

Dominick's gaze slowly moved up from her pale, terrified face. His eyes locked onto the top of her head. He stared at the antique Cartier hairpin holding her dark hair in place.

He released her left wrist. His hand moved up, his long fingers brushing against the cold gold of the pin.

Alya felt the shift in his attention. Panic spiked in her chest.

"Don't touch that," Alya choked out, her voice cracking. "That's my grandmother's. It's a family heirloom."

Dominick ignored her completely. His fingers closed around the jeweled end of the pin. He pulled it hard.

The pin slid out of her hair. Without the anchor, Alya's tight bun instantly collapsed. Her long, dark hair spilled out like a waterfall, spreading across the dark leather cushions around her face.

Dominick held the delicate gold pin up to the dim light. He stared at the small diamonds for exactly two seconds. Then, he let out a short, cold sound of amusement.

He smoothly slid the Cartier pin into the inside breast pocket of his expensive suit jacket. The movement was elegant, but it was an act of pure theft.

Alya's fear was momentarily swallowed by hot, blinding anger. She glared up at him, her eyes wide.

"You're a thief!" Alya yelled, struggling against his remaining grip on her right wrist. "Give it back to me right now!"

Dominick dropped his upper body lower. His face came so close to hers that their noses almost brushed. The scent of cedar and danger completely enveloped her.

"Listen to me very carefully," Dominick said, his voice dropping to a deadly, quiet rumble. "In this room, I am the rule."

Alya's breath hitched. Tears of frustration and pure terror burned the backs of her eyes. Her vision blurred. She finally realized the catastrophic mistake she had made. She hadn't seduced a playboy. She had walked into the cage of a monster.

Deep inside the pocket of her skirt, her cell phone began to vibrate. The sharp, mechanical buzzing sound cut through the suffocating silence of the room.

Both of them stopped moving.

Dominick raised one dark eyebrow. He looked down at her pocket, then back up to her face. He gave a tiny tilt of his head, a silent command for her to answer it.

He slowly released his crushing grip on her right wrist. He stood up straight, but he didn't step back. He stood right next to the sofa, his tall body completely blocking her path to the door.

Alya scrambled to sit up. She rubbed her red, throbbing wrist. Her fingers shook violently as she dug into her pocket and pulled out the phone.

The screen glowed brightly in the dim room. Kenzie's name flashed across the glass. Alya swiped the answer button, pressing the phone hard against her ear like a lifeline.

"Hello?" Alya whispered, her voice trembling.

Kenzie's voice exploded from the speaker. She was screaming in sheer panic. The volume was so loud that the sound bounced off the walls of the quiet lounge.

"Alya! Run! Get out of there right now!" Kenzie shrieked. "The information was wrong! Brenton isn't even in New York! The man in the 17th-floor suite is Dominick Duncan! The head of the family! He's a monster, Alya, run!"