MY EXTRA

LILITH

The man across from the arrivals terminal in Florida is the kind of beautiful that should come with a warning label.

Grittily beautiful.

The kind of handsome that can ruin your life with a look.

And gazing at him?

It devastates me.

He's tall, lean in a black linen suit that hugs him like a confidence. He walks like he owns every inch of concrete between us and every bit of air I try to breathe.

Nobody is supposed to look that good.

Least of all him.

But when he turns to speak to a woman across the room, I notice-he's not the man I've been trying not to remember. Not the one who destroyed my career with a single tactical silence. This man has kind eyes. Brown, not icy blue. His voice lacks the biting British accent, the one that curls around your spine and cuts through the softest bits of you.

No. This man's a stranger.

Not Cass Lyon.

The baggage clerk's voice breaks into my daydream.

"Sorry, Miss Deborah. Your bag was last spotted in New York, but it hasn't been transferred since."

The air rushes out of me. "That's impossible. I need to have that bag."

She smiles sympathetically like an offering. "If it's not located within twenty-four hours, you'll be reimbursed up to five hundred dollars.".

Iqueeze the heels of my hands over my eyes and breathe deeply.

No sleep on the plane. A toothbrush stop at JFK, a worse cup of coffee, and a panic-tipped changeover later-I should've known it was stupid to check all I own into one bag.

Including my medication.

I'm bumped from behind. I turn-bridesmaids, five of them, in a row in matching white dresses, the bride-to-be's sash saying Last Night of Freedom, and they're already halfway drunk on it.

I'm the sole individual here who is not looking for a good time.

"I'm not on vacation," I mutter as I adjust the strap of my crossbody and hold on to the one thing I did not lose-my laptop.

Thank God.

She looks over my ripped jeans and black tank top as though she's cataloging my faults. "Pity."

You have no idea, I feel like telling her. That I'm here because I burned my career for a principle I couldn't ignore. That the same institutions that two months ago wanted to crown me now won't even take a call.

I move into the thick Florida air and notice a man by the exit. Gray hair, linen suit, holding a sign with "Sienna" on it.

"That's me," I tell him. "Lilith. You can call me that."

He looks around. "No bags?"

"Lost," I bite out. "What's your name?"

"Frank Dera, señorita."

I follow him as we weave through the crowd. Tourists in swimsuits and flip-flops, all trying to get away.

"Everybody's here to party," I say to him.

"And you?"

"I'm here to ensure they do it right."

I slide my sunglasses down and let the heat reach my face. Yesterday it was spring in New York. Today it's full summer. The scent of sunscreen and salt hits me like déjà vu for a life I've never lived.

Frank nods toward a sleek Mercedes limousine.

I open the passenger door instead of going around to the back. "I ride up front."

He raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. I choose a worn paperback from the seat-Eat, Pray, Love.

I hold it up with a smile. "Really? Your own book club selection?"

He chuckles. "My wife says our daughter liked it. I'm trying to understand her better."

My chest hurts in the kindest way. "She's lucky."

"She's like you. Independent."

"Don't tell anyone," I whisper.

He glances at me sideways. "Your parents must be proud."

I smile mirthlessly. "They were proud of the daughter who didn't rock the boat."

There is silence between us until I break it again. "Actually, can we go to the club first? I want to check specs."

He nods. "Clody. It means 'below.'"

We drive, and we pass another massive venue, its sign gleaming like a mirage.

"La Mer," I whisper, watching it vanish in the mirror.

That's the club. People make their lives about one night there.

"I'm going to play there someday," I say.

Frank's laugh is low but definite. "No woman has."

I turn to him. "Tell your daughter I'll be the first."

At Clody, Frank walks me to the door, palms me a card. "Call when you're ready to go to the villa."

Inside, it's industrial paradise. Chrome and black, bars on each side, stage dead ahead. VIP booths line the balcony, looking down over the floor like quiet deities. It's dark. Cool. Wired for something loud and electric.

My spot. For the next month.

I can feel it.

A woman's voice slices the air.

"Damnation."

She rises from behind the mixer. Sleek, sharp. Sun-bleached hair cut short, wearing a green sundress like armor.

"Doors don't open for twelve hours."

"I'm not a tourist." I slide the bag off my shoulder. "Lilith. Little Queen."

Her eyebrow goes up. "You're the DJ."

"That's right."

She looks me up and down with the eyes of a person who's already considering whether you'll sink or swim.

"I'm Bladina. I run the club."

She sizes me up, her voice cold but curious. "Calling out Cass Lyon on social media was a dumbass move."

"A woman was assaulted on one of his properties. No one took responsibility. He owns White Kats."

"You knew the woman?"

"Does it matter?"

Bladina nods slowly. "Let me guess-now you're blacklisted."

"This place gave me a shot."

"And was it worth it?" she asks.

I don't hesitate. "Yes."

She watches me. "You're the only one not scared of him."

"I don't care how rich he is. Or how pretty. Or how big his-"

"Rumor is he's hiding out," she cuts in, lips curving.

"Good. He should be embarrassed."

Her smirk is slow, dangerous. She slides me a network cable. "Plug in. Let's see what you've got."

I pull out my laptop, hit the power button. Dead.

Of course.

I dig for the charger, irritation licking up my spine-and then a voice.

Smooth, deep, clipped with an expensive London edge.

"That's a shame."

It floats down from the mezzanine.

"Because the contract you signed says, for the next month. you're mine."

I freeze.

Then look up.

And there he is.

Cass Lyon.

Smiling like sin in a tailored suit, leaning on the banister like he's been waiting all along.

And I swear-

the air around me changes.

The earth doesn't shake.

I do.

CASS LYON.

The man himself emerges onto the runway in one of the VIP booths, dressed in immaculately pressed Florida-sand-colored pants and a crisp white button-down that sticks to his broad shoulders and chested torso.

Every inch of his body screams wealth and privilege. His hair has been recently cut, the dull burnished gold grown darkened to warm brown in the club's low light.

A clear, straight nose and square chin vie for attention with his tight, brusque lips.

He's got at least a decade on me, but looks like he could still join the Olympic swim team without even breaking a sweat.

My initial and only encounter is forever etched in my memory. I accosted him-this billion-dollar stranger-at the wedding reception of two musician friends we both socialize with. Fueled by outrage and a few too many glasses of champagne, I finally freely let loose the anger I had kept bottled up throughout the ceremony.

I don't usually hate people. But Cass Lyon has me questioning that precept.

"What the fuck is going on?" I demand.

Electric blue eyes-icy and impassive-pin me with as much warmth as the neon sign in the street.

"You signed a contract to play my club."

He walks down the stairs like he owns the joint, his feet slow and deliberate.

"It wasn't yours when I signed the contract." I would have recalled if Echo Entertainment-his domain-was discussed.

"Not my fault you can't keep up with the industry."

The bartenders leap to action. They hadn't acknowledged me previously, but now they're scrambling as if they were working in a Michelin restaurant.

Cass stops at the stage, his shirt open wide enough to reveal a tan throat and the flex of muscle beneath. His smile is dazzling-like light on ice. Cold and perfect.

I turn to Bladina, who shrugs one shoulder with a cringe.

"Listen...," she begins.

"Bladina." He quiets her with an uplifted palm, like her voice is an irritation.

Arrogant bastard.

I close my notebook and thrust it into my bag. "I'm not playing your club," I snap out. "Not tonight. Never."

My stilettos clang down the stairs and across the dance floor. I collide with the door, grip the handle-

It won't budge.

Fear explodes just as I feel him closing in behind me.

"I'm disappointed." His voice is low, his words inches from my ear so I catch the heat of his breath along the curve of my ear. "I've been waiting for this since our first meeting."

I spin around to face him, anger running through my veins.

Why did I mix up the man at the airport with Cass Lyon?

No other person has this level of danger. This pull of attraction with poison.

"A woman was attacked at my show in LA," I say between clenched teeth. "Your show. In your club. Your agent didn't care. No one in your office called back. When I finally got through to you, you didn't care either."

"Whatever. When you jumped me at a wedding?"

As if the venue makes any difference.

If you think that I have time to pamper each individual who enters one of my buildings myself," he responds coldly, "then you don't understand the scope of my business."

I incline my head upwards. "If you cannot protect the individuals who enter your businesses, then you do not deserve to own any."

His Adam's apple bobs up. For a moment-just one-I glimpse a flicker of shock in his eyes.

Even kings bleed.

I try to open the door a second time, looking at the lock this time. I turn it, yank the door open, and run by the baffled security guard outside.

Out in the parking lot, I breathe hard, grabbing my phone from my pocket to call Frank Dera. I need to get the hell out of here and back to the resort-try to think about what comes next.

The ringtone bleats once before the call is cut off.

Shit.

I scour the street with my vision. Lights spin and traffic bawls in the distance.

"You take a very low view of me," Cass shouts after me.

"I'm not surprised you are concerned."

He steps forward, his face locked in that habitual expression of impassionate royalty.

"I do hope your worthies read the terms for breach of contract to enable you to fulfill your contractual terms."

The wind hits my hair and I allow my bag to fall so that I can brush it out, my fingers trembling.

Thanks to you," he goes on, "one of my best-producing clubs bombed last night. You will pay me back. For the next month, I am your owner. If you even try to get out of here, I'll sue you for everything. Your computer." He takes my bag. "Your music. Every thread of clothing you have."

His words fall around me, each one heavier than the last.

I can barely breathe.

"No comeback?" he taunts.

I don't go down without a fight. I won't.

"If it takes threats of a lawsuit to get a woman undressed," I take my bag, "your game is pathetic."

His lips twist in incredulity.

Then a horn blows and a taxi comes to the curb.

My heart pounds as I leap in, his final words ringing out behind me.

Even as we pull away, my chest tightens. Because secretly, I know he may be right.

For the next thirty days.

My owner is Cass Lyon.

When the taxi drives up to the sandstone villa hugging the coast, hemmed in by green hedges, I'm momentarily stunned at how lovely it is.

It's more a boutique hotel than a villa.

A woman halts in mid-vacuum and stares at me.

"I'm supposed to be staying here tonight," I tell her, fingers on my ID.

She smiles, grasping my hand in a tight, friendly clasp. "Sí, señorita. I am Lydia. I will bring you to your room."

She leads me upstairs, down a hall of six doors, and through one to reveal pale yellow walls and double doors opening out onto a balcony with a view of the ocean.

"It's lovely," I say, breathing.

She smiles and shuts the door gently.

The salt and lemon scent washes over me, unloosing something pent-up in my chest. I head to the balcony, grasping the railing, smelling the boundless ocean.

I'm a stranger in a foreign land. I own nothing-no gear, no help, no power.

One sole hard reality:

I'm being forced to play for the man I hate.

I pull out my phone, scroll through to find the contract. His name is not there. No shock-hid behind corporate shields.

However, I send the paper to my lawyer. Ask if a loophole, an out exists.

This work was to be my rebirth.

Now, I am lost more than ever.

I glance at the time difference and dial the name Recee.

Her voice responds, out of breath. "Hey! Mid-morning nausea. What's up?"

"Still can't believe Kia gets to tour and you're puking every five minutes."

"He'll owe me for life."

She sounds as breezy and sunny as ever. And, as ever, her optimism brings me back down to earth.

"I was gonna ask if you'd recorded vocals for that song?"

"Almost there," she promises. "Now distract me before I vomit."

"I just got into Florida," I say, flopping onto the bed.

The air is redolent of fresh linen and freedom. Or it ought to be.

"Residency's not what I signed on for."

I don't tell her everything-no need to rock her boat. And not for any reason on earth to drag Kia into it, who is a friend of Cass Lyon's.

Recee and I do have a history at arts school. She knows what transpired between me and Cass.

She breathes thoughtfully. "If it's anything like Broadway, it'll be brutal but worth it."

I very much doubt it.

"Where's Mr. Rock Star?" I demand.

"Amsterdam this week. I'm going crazy without him."

I venture out to the balcony again, the cool air soothing my raw nerves.

"Florida's nice," I admit. "If you like sun, perfect strangers, and people pretending to be happy."

"Hard to think anything could ruin that. You're in line for something better, Lilith."

That's the gamble, isn't it? Hoped-for goodness. People showing up.

Listen, you should rest," I tell him. "Want a souvenir?"

"Just bring me a good story."

I hang up and gaze out to sea.

A good story.

I may already be living it.

But it's one that starts with heartbreak and ends with blood in the water.

LILITH

Cass Lyon's right about something-I'm not leaving without a plan. At present, if he were to try to go after me through the law, I'm not in doubt that he would win.

Recee needs a story.

I'm young, but not vulnerable.

I'm not afraid of this villain.

Not without laying in some punches first.

Cass Lyon might be the rich boy.

But I'm the girl with the microphone.

A knock at the door has me facing as Lydia arrives, her brows furrowed with concern. "Where are your bags?"

"The airline lost them."

Her eyes widen in shock. "Dios mío. I can give you a ride to shop, if you'd like-or send you to the top boutiques."

I glance down at my wrinkle-creased outfit. I must have something to wear tonight if I don't go today. "Maybe not the top boutiques," I remark tactfully. "If I called and told them what I needed, could they drop a few things off?"

"Sure thing."

"And a wig," I go on, setting my phone on the dresser and unpinning the gloomy bun I threw together an hour before. "Blond.".

She doesn't flinch. "You need to go out on the beach. We've got a pool too, and a jacuzzi. Enjoy yourself before work starts. You're too young to be so serious."

That strikes somewhere deep within me. Her words are not supposed to hurt, but they do.

Inspirited, I reach for my computer.

She's right. Just because I'm here doesn't mean I can't enjoy myself a little.

Defiance hums in my fingers as I send a text to Recee with a rough new verse.

My agreement states I'll play for Cass Lyon.

It doesn't state that I have to do it nicely.

CASS

"We're here, señor," Frank Dera says, catching my eye in the rearview mirror as we pull into the club.

I smooth my suit. "Thank you, Frank."

"You sure you're ready?"

I frown. "It's a Thursday night like any other.".

Aside from the fact that it doesn't quite feel like that. There's something humming in my chest, all twisted up like I've already been at it.

I slip out before Frank opens the door for me. He comes on anyway, catching the handle with habitual stubbornness as I zip up my coat.

"It's a new club. Renovations just completed. New talent, too," he adds as I make for the back door.

I do, look back at him. He only nods.

New talent, I imagine.

Security straightens when they see me. Eyes follow every step I take as I do have a storm brewing in my wake.

And I do.

A man with a mission is a danger to the world.

A man without one? A danger to himself.

I don't move into places. I stake them out. I make it unmistakable-what belongs to me, I take. The sooner everyone learns that, the fewer problems for everyone.

When I bought Clody, it was in ruins. Even its own name-"below" on the sign-sounds like a curse, not a name.

But I see potential where there isn't any. I dig up, I sharpen, I bring back to life.

Today? The building is a pulse. A promise. A reminder.

My parents should come and see.

The thought seeps into my brain like a wisp of smoke. I send it packing as a young actress stumbles my way, weaving from the front of the club.

"Cass," she slurs, drunk and glowing under the stage lights. "You've been avoiding me."

"You came to catch up and have a drink with me," I reply levelly. "I succeeded."

Her hand drifts towards my chest, and I take her hand away delicately, pulling it back without hesitation.

There is disappointment in her eyes. Desire. Hope.

But I am not that man.

No longer.

Once, I chased beautiful women like they were foreign exchange. Now, I chase something less common.

Control. Precision. Power that never says sorry.

Love? That was my mistake. That was giving a woman my life-my future-for nothing. Money was cheap to what it cost me.

Never again.

I nod to security to keep her under watch as I move along.

The music strikes before the door even opens-low and thick and ravenous. I climb the stairs to the second floor. My own personal booth is waiting. Below, the sea of bodies swirls, bodies moving like heat waves in the darkness.

I stand just within the doorway, letting it all filter into my bones.

Lydia told me Lilith would sing tonight. Toro told me so too.

I knew she would show up.

She's passionate, yes. But not dumb.

I would've sued her to oblivion. Fast enough she'd be on her ass before she even got to customs.

We bumped into each other at Kia Leo's wedding, when I still clung to the illusion of charm.

She strode in like wrath in stilettos.

Eviscerated me as if I hadn't constructed my empire brick by bloody brick.

I thanked her-very fucking little-for the gratuitous advice.

She didn't like that.

One tweet. That was all it took to ruin my figures at White Kats in one night. Sent my PR staff into a whirlwind. Blacklisted her by half the London-to-Florida clubs.

And a part of me?

Respected her for it.

It reminded me of something I'd forgotten long ago: what it feels like to feel something real.

"Whisky, Mr. Lyon?" the bartender shouts.

"In my booth."

"Sí, señor. You have a visitor."

Before I can demand who's in my room, he's gone.

I round the corner-and stop.

"Let me take a wild guess-half of your renovation budget went to walls, half to whisky."

Mucha sits with his typical slump and smirk, polo shirt and khakis, mixing a drink.

"Mucha. Didn't know you were stopping by."

"Premier League's canceled. Thought I'd crash your latest empire."

"I've opened two more since."

"Still here, though. Hiding?"

I shoot him an evil stare. "I'm unwinding."

He grins. "Indeed. That's why your jaw's tighter than your budget margins."

Mucha's younger, faster. A striker for one of England's top teams and too damn sharp for his own good.

"You look positively rejuvenated," he goes on.

I ignore him, drink the thirty-year-old Pete Mystk whisky on its monogrammed napkin.

"God love 'em, they were always so wasteful," he whispers.

"You don't know what they'd want. You were still a kid when they died."

That silences him. For a breath.

"I thought it changed you being with her," he says finally. "You paced yourself. Smiled. Behaved like a human being again."

I take a drink. Burn is more gratifying than anything I can think of saying back to him.

Love is a legend. Soothes the blade.

And I can't afford to have dull edges.

Downstairs, the crowd riples in a beat that is almost feral. Music thunders off the walls. The air is dense.

"Bladina said I had to see the show," Mucha bellows above the noise. "She said a woman tore you new one too."

I haven't been able to respond before the lights dim.

Shut up. Then-

White light blazes down on the stage.

And there she is.

Lilith.

Blond wig glistening like halo fire, body smooth and unyielding in strobes. She bends over gear like she's carving reality out of beats and basslines.

White Kats' new headliner, Mucha says. "The name suits her."

My jaw is clenched.

"She owes me," I snarl. "Even queens settle their debts."

But God pity me, I am unable to walk away.

She is that girl-the one we all fantasized about in boarding school. Not because she was compassionate. But because she wasn't.

Rebellion incarnate.

And when her eyes lift-when they meet mine, as if she feels my stare-

She smiles.

Then flips me the bird. Both of them. Middle fingers raised like a crown of thorns.

And f--ks me-

I smile back.