The Monsters Nemesis by PEACHES

I should have said no. I should have blocked Mia's number, thrown my phone into the ocean, and moved into a monastery where the only men I'd ever see again were carved out of stone. But instead, here I am-standing in the marble lobby of the Corinthian Hotel, wearing a dress I definitely cannot afford, waiting to escort a seventy-eight-year-old millionaire to dinner because my best friend's mother slipped in the bathtub and fractured her hip. Reality has a cruel sense of humor, and my bank account is its favorite punchline.

"Please, Lena," Mia begged three hours ago. "He's harmless. He just wants company. He'll be asleep by ten. And he tips like he's allergic to money."

I'd been too broke-and too exhausted from pretending everything in my life wasn't on fire-to refuse. So I said yes. I painted my face, curled my hair, and stepped into a dress that felt like it was held together with hope and desperation. Then the universe decided to punish me for that optimism, because the moment I step out from behind the column to greet Mr. Harold Sutton-bald, cheerful, wearing suspenders and orthopedic shoes-I feel a familiar, icy burn slither down my spine. A presence. A memory. A ghost I never wanted to see again.

I turn-and there he is.

Adrian Vale. Eight years older. Infinitely richer. Unfairly hotter. And looking at me like I just crawled out of the sewer and tracked filth across his Italian leather shoes. My heart leaps into my throat so fast I nearly choke on it.

No. Not him. Not now. Not while I'm doing this. Not while I'm playing the role of "pleasant female dinner companion" when he is the last person alive I ever wanted witnessing this chapter of my life.

I try to pretend I don't see him, but he's impossible to ignore. Adrian always commanded a room, even back in college when he was just a brilliant, infuriating boy who could make professors stutter. But now? Now he stands in the center of the lobby like a lion blocking the only exit, posture relaxed but predatory, eyes cutting straight through me the second Mr. Sutton's hand touches my arm.

"Lena?" Mr. Sutton beams. "You look lovely tonight!"

I force a bright smile. "Thank you, sir."

Adrian's face goes razor-flat. Then-because fate enjoys stabbing me in the ribs-Mr. Sutton lifts my hand and presses a polite kiss to my knuckles. The look on Adrian's face darkens instantly, sharp and lethal, as if he's watching someone defile a holy relic. I part my lips to explain-well, lie, but with dignity-when his voice slices through the lobby.

"I didn't know you were still working your way through wealthy donors."

My stomach plummets. "Excuse me?" I whisper.

He steps closer, slow and controlled, hands in his pockets like he owns the oxygen in the room. "You left me for money in college. I see nothing's changed."

My blood freezes. I left him? For money? He has no idea. He never bothered to ask what really happened-never wanted to. He just swallowed whatever poisonous story someone whispered in his ear and turned his back on me like I was an inconvenience he'd finally outgrown.

I swallow hard, forcing air into my burning lungs. "Move, Adrian. I'm working."

"Oh, I can see that." His eyes drag over Mr. Sutton-sweet, confused, unaware he's being used as a weapon. "Expanding your clientele?"

Eight years-eight years-and he still believes the lie someone fed him. Eight years of silence, of no closure, no explanation, nothing but one devastating winter night that cracked me open like glass and left him walking away with the good version of the story.

I open my mouth to finally say everything I've held back, but Mr. Sutton pats my hand.

"Dinner, dear?"

Focus. Survive. Get paid. Leave. "Yes. Dinner." I slip my arm through his and guide him toward the restaurant. But Adrian steps into our path. Right into it. I swear my heart stops.

"Move," I say quietly.

He doesn't budge. His gaze drags-slow, cutting-from Mr. Sutton's hand on my arm to the glittery dress Mia forced me into. He looks at me the way someone looks at fruit that has just begun to rot-mild disgust, mild pity, mostly disappointment in the universe. Before he can spit something worse, a security guard approaches.

"Mr. Vale, your penthouse suite is prepared. Would you like to go up?"

Adrian doesn't look at him. He doesn't look away from me. "No. I want to eat first."

He's staying. To watch. To judge. To confirm whatever disgusting theory he's written in his mind about why I'm here with a seventy-eight-year-old man. He wants to see the spectacle. Of course he does. He always liked answers, and he thinks he's finally found one tonight.

By the time we're halfway through starters and soup, Mr. Sutton is describing a yacht explosion with wild enthusiasm. I'm nodding politely, sipping from my spoon, pretending I'm not hyperaware of Adrian's presence like a wolf pacing behind a glass wall. That's when a shadow glides across the table.

"Miss Hale," the maître d' says smoothly, presenting a small gold-plated platter. A cream envelope rests on it, sealed and elegant. "This is for you."

"For me?" I blink. The agency already took its dinner fee. Tips come at the end of the night.