Mistaking a Magnate for a Male Escort

The bass from the Neon Lounge's sound system didn't just vibrate in the air; it rattled against Ava Kidd's ribs, making the nausea in her stomach churn violently.

She sat at the edge of the marble bar, her fingers wrapped so tightly around her fourth shot of tequila that her knuckles were entirely white.

She threw the liquid down her throat. It burned like battery acid, but the physical pain was a welcome distraction from the suffocating pressure in her chest.

Her phone screen lit up from inside her open purse on the dark counter.

Lorelei.

The name of her stepmother flashed like a warning siren. Ava's throat tightened. Her lungs forgot how to pull in air. Maybe I should just do what Lorelei always accuses me of, she thought bitterly. Find some rich man to pay my way. My friend even joked this hotel has a secret menu for that. Elite male escorts.

She didn't answer. She shoved the phone deeper into her bag and snapped it shut, the harsh smack of leather and metal barely audible over the deafening music. She pressed her thumbs into her eyes until she saw sparks.

A bartender slid a vibrant, neon-blue martini across the counter. It stopped inches from her hand.

"From the gentleman in the Armani suit at the corner booth," the bartender shouted over the music.

Ava didn't even look at the corner booth. Her stomach twisted into a tight, sick knot.

She pushed the glass away with the back of her hand. She pushed too hard.

The blue liquid sloshed over the rim, splashing directly onto the lap of her cheap, black silk dress. The cold wetness seeped into her skin instantly, making her shiver.

"Keep it," Ava muttered, her voice thick and raspy.

She grabbed the edge of the bar and forced herself to stand. The moment her weight shifted onto her heels, the tequila hijacked her equilibrium.

The floor tilted. Her ankle wobbled, and she stumbled sideways, her shoulder slamming hard into the back of a tall man standing nearby.

"Whoa, easy there, sweetheart," a greasy voice slurred.

Three men in unbuttoned dress shirts immediately turned their attention to her. Their eyes dragged up and down her ruined dress like she was an item on a menu. One of them reached out, his thick fingers grazing her bare arm.

Ava's skin crawled. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her sternum. She tried to step back, but her legs felt like lead.

Before the man could grab her waist, a figure stepped between them.

He wore the immaculate, gold-trimmed uniform of The Elysium hotel staff. His broad shoulders completely blocked the predatory men from her view.

"Miss," the employee said. His name tag read Rico. His voice was calm, professional, but his eyes darted nervously around the club. As he reached out, the club's strobe lights caught the heavy gleam of a solid gold Rolex on his wrist-a watch that cost more than his entire year's salary. "You seem unwell. Would you like me to escort you to the private VIP lounge to sober up? It is much quieter there."

Ava's brain was a thick, foggy mess. The word quieter echoed in her skull like a lifeline.

She couldn't go home to Lorelei. She couldn't stay here.

She gave a slow, heavy nod.

Rico immediately gripped her elbow. His hold was firm, almost urgent. He steered her away from the flashing strobe lights and the suffocating crush of sweaty bodies, guiding her toward a dark corridor at the back of the club.

As they passed the velvet ropes, two women in designer dresses glared at Ava. Their eyes dripped with disgust, clearly assuming she was just another desperate girl trying to sleep her way into a rich man's wallet.