ANASTASIA
I sat across from Mrs. Wesley, gripping my water glass like it was the only thing keeping me upright. The ice had melted ages ago. I didn't care.
"Blacklisted."
The word hit me like a slap. I stared at her mouth, still moving, still saying words that didn't matter anymore. The fancy chandeliers overhead blurred. The murmur of rich people chatting faded into nothing. I looked down at my glass. Eight dollars for water. And it tasted like nothing.
"I'm sorry, Ana," Mrs. Wesley said, her voice soft and pitying. That pity was worse than anything. "You know I'd help if I could. But my hands are tied."
I forced myself to speak calmly. "Is there really nothing you can do?"
She snapped her briefcase shut. It sounded way too loud in the quiet restaurant. "You crossed someone too powerful. No one in Seattle will touch you now. Not even me."
And there it was. The cold, hard truth. Mark Caldwell. That smirking bastard. I'd given three years to that firm, worked my ass off, and he'd stolen my cases, taken credit for my work. And when I wouldn't let him put his hands on me in his dark office? He destroyed me. Just like that. A few whispers in the right ears and my entire career was gone.
Mrs. Wesley slid a keycard across the table. "I got you a room here. Get some rest. It's on me."
Charity. The thought made me sick. My pride wanted to shove it right back across that table. But pride didn't pay rent, nor did it stop the eviction notice sitting in my purse; it had proven utterly useless to me so far. I swallowed hard and took the card.
Mrs. Wesley stood up and walked away, her heels clicking on the marble floor until she disappeared into the fancy lobby. I sat there for a moment, feeling hollowed out and scraped clean. But then I looked at the keycard in my hand. Fine. If this was how Mrs. Wesley wanted to ease her guilty conscience, I'd take it. One night in this ridiculously expensive hotel. Why the hell not.
I got up, put on my best poker face, and walked through the lobby. The marble floors gleamed and people looked at me as I passed. Men stared. They always did. They saw the pretty face and the graceful way I had spent months teaching myself how to move. I just hoped, now more than ever, they didn't see the cracks underneath.
The elevator doors closed and I finally let out a shaky breath. The numbers climbed. 20. 30. 40. Higher and higher, away from my ruined life below.
Then someone slammed into me.
A woman in a fur coat, barely looking up from her phone. "Watch it," she snapped, and kept walking.
My clutch hit the floor. Lipstick. My one credit card. And—
My stomach dropped. The keycard.
I crouched down, scrambling to pick everything up. And then my fingers froze. There on the floor was another card, left behind by the fur-coat woman. Presidential Suite. Gold lettering. Still warm.
My own basic room key was gone, kicked away and swallowed by the crowd.
No one noticed. No one even looked at me.
I stood up slowly, the Presidential Suite card burning in my palm.
No one would even know.
The thought crept through my mind, dark and tempting.
For the first time in my life, I didn't back down. I stepped into the elevator.
---
I'd never stolen a thing in my life. Not as a kid, when my classmates swiped candy from the corner store. Not when I was hungry and the baker left warm buns out to cool. I was the good girl. The one who followed the rules. Because when you're poor and living off other people's kindness, one wrong move can ruin everything and make you seem unworthy of the pity.
But tonight, standing in that elevator with a stranger's keycard in my hand, something felt different. It wasn't just a piece of plastic anymore. It was a door. A door to a world that had just slammed shut right in my face.
The woman in the fur coat had kicked away my room key and disappeared. Gone. Leaving me with this. Presidential Suite. Gold and gleaming.
No one would even know.
The thought whispered through me like a snake. I stood there by the elevator, running my thumb over the edge of the card. Around me, the VIP lounge hummed with quiet wealth. The kind of wealth I'd dreamed about. Worked for. And now? I thought of my empty apartment. The eviction notice. The cold finality in Mrs. Wesley's voice.
Being good had gotten me blacklisted and broke. All that caution, all that rule-following. What had it ever gotten me?
I took a deep, shaky breath. It felt like giving up. Like reaching some kind of breaking point.
Then I turned away from the front desk and walked toward the bar.
---
The bar was all dark wood and dim lights. A piano played somewhere. Soft. Sad.
I stopped just inside.
Three years. Eighty-hour weeks. Skipped birthdays. Canceled vacations. Dinners from cardboard boxes at my desk. Every waking moment clawing toward this world.
And now I wasn't even allowed to work in it.
A strange calm settled over me. Almost peaceful. Nothing left to lose.
I walked to the bar and slipped onto a stool.
The bartender handed me a leather menu. I opened it. My stomach lurched. Twenty-eight dollars for a martini. Forty-three for champagne. A hundred and five for a glass of Macallan Twenty-Five.
Yesterday I'd have laughed and ordered water. Yesterday I thought I had a future to budget for.
Today I'd been blacklisted. Tomorrow I'd probably be packing before the landlord locked me out.
I closed the menu. "I'll have the Macallan."
"The Twenty-Five?"
"The best one."
He studied me for half a second. Then smiled. "Excellent choice."
I almost laughed. I didn't know anything about whiskey. I chose it because if tonight was the funeral for my life, I wanted one last taste of the world I almost reached.
He brought the glass. Amber liquid shimmered under the lights. Beautiful. I lifted it. Warm, smoky smell. I took a sip. Heat bloomed on my tongue, slid down my throat.
I waited.
Nothing. No magic. No choir. No sudden understanding of hundred-dollar drinks.
I frowned at the glass and muttered, "I think I expected enlightenment."
A quiet sound beside me. Almost a laugh. "That costs considerably more."
I turned.
And just... stared.
Dark hair. Messy in that way that probably took effort. Broad shoulders in a charcoal jacket. A jaw that didn't make sense. And eyes—green like sunlight through deep water.
It was almost irritating.
I shook my head. "Well. That's unfair."
He turned toward me, one eyebrow lifting. Not smiling yet. Just curious. "What is?"
I gestured vaguely at his face. "That."
He didn't react. Just waited.
I sighed. "Some of us have to rely on personality."
A pause. Then his mouth curved. Just barely. "You always introduce yourself by insulting strangers?"
"It wasn't an insult. It was envy." I lifted my glass. "I've had a terrible day. Let me have this."
He studied me for a second. Something flickered in his eyes. Not interest exactly. More like recognition. Then he nodded toward my glass. "The Macallan."
"So I'm told."
"You've never had it before."
I smiled into my drink. "That obvious?"
"You looked disappointed."
"I was hoping for a religious experience. A hundred and five dollars." I shook my head. "Turns out it just tastes like whiskey."
"Then why order it?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it. The honest answer was right there, but saying it out loud felt pathetic. I looked at the amber liquid. Swirled it once.
"I guess I wanted one night," I said, "where I didn't have to look at prices."
Silence. I felt his eyes on me. I didn't look up.
"That's a habit?" he asked. His voice was quieter now.
"Looking at prices? Yeah." I took another sip. "It is."
"You don't seem like someone who...."
"Who's struggled?" I finished. Laughed a little. "I know. I clean up well."
He didn't laugh with me. Just watched. It made me uncomfortable. Like he was actually listening.
I shifted on my stool, turning toward him. "So what about you?"
"What about me?"
"You've been asking the questions. Your turn."
He hesitated. Just a beat. Like he was choosing his words carefully. "I work too much."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one I have."
"What do you actually do?"
"I own things." He said it flat. Not bragging. Just tired. "Hotels. Companies. Problems, mostly."
"So you're rich."
"Something like that."
"And that doesn't make you happy."
It slipped out. I hadn't meant to say it. He went still for a second, and I thought I'd crossed a line.
Then he said, "No. It doesn't."
I nodded. Raised my glass. "Me neither."
That surprised him. "You're not rich."
"Exactly." I took a drink. "So I don't even have an excuse."
He laughed. A real one this time. Short and low. It changed his whole face.
"There," I said, pointing at him with my glass. "That's better."
"What?"
"You were scowling. Before." I shrugged. "You've got a nice smile. You should use it more."
He looked at me for a long moment. Something unreadable in his expression. Then he said, "You're strange."
"I've heard that."
"I didn't mean it as an insult."
"I didn't take it as one."
We sat there. The piano kept playing. Glasses clinked somewhere behind us. I should've felt awkward. I didn't.
"I'm Anastasia," I said.
"Dominic."
No last name. Just Dominic.
I smiled. "Mysterious."
"Efficient." He took a sip of his drink. "What happened?"
The question came out of nowhere. I blinked. "What?"
"Earlier. You said you'd had a terrible day. What happened?"
I felt the smile slip. My fingers tightened around the glass. For a second I thought about giving some vague answer. Changing the subject. But I was tired. Tired of pretending.
"I worked at a firm," I said. "Three years. I was good. Really good." I paused. "And then the owner's son decided he wanted something from me. When I said no, he made sure I'd never work in this city again."
Dominic said nothing. His face didn't change. But something in his eyes went cold.
"So that's it," I said. "Career over. Reputation gone. And here I am, drinking whiskey I can't afford, talking to a stranger whose last name I don't know."
"Blackwood."
I looked up.
"My name. Dominic Blackwood."
The name landed like a stone. I knew that name. Everyone in finance knew that name. Billionaire. Recluse. The man who owned half of—
Oh God.
"You own this hotel," I said.
"I own several."
I stared at him. Then I laughed. It came out a little unsteady. "Of course. Of course you do." I shook my head. "I've been sitting here complaining about prices to the man who probably sets them."
"You weren't complaining. You were being honest." He paused. "It's rare."
Something in the way he said it made my chest tighten. I looked away.
"I should probably go," I said.
"Do you want to?"
The question was simple. Direct. I met his eyes. Green. Unreadable.
"No," I said. "I don't."
He held my gaze. Then he set his glass down. "Come upstairs."
No smirk. No game. Just a quiet confidence.
I knew what he was asking. I should've said no. I should've been smart. Careful. The good girl who always did the right thing.
But the good girl was blacklisted and broke. The good girl had nothing left.
"Okay," I said.
We stood. Walked toward the elevator. My heart was pounding, but my steps were steady.
He reached into his jacket. Stopped. Frowned.
"What?"
"My key." He checked another pocket. "I must have left it."
The bartender leaned forward. "Sir, I can call.."
"It's fine." Dominic turned to me. "Do you have yours?"
My stomach dropped.
My key.
The key.
The gold Presidential Suite keycard. The one I'd found. The one I'd stolen.
He was watching me. Waiting.
I reached into my clutch. Pulled it out. Placed it in his hand.
He looked down at it. The gold lettering. The Presidential Suite.
And everything changed.
His face didn't just go cold. It went dead. The warmth vanished like it had never been there. When he looked at me again, his eyes were different. Flat. Clinical.
"Presidential Suite," he said.
His voice was quiet. Too quiet.
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
"You move fast."
The words landed like a slap. I flinched. "What?"
He didn't answer. Just tossed bills on the counter and said, "Let's go."
Not a question. Not an invitation.
The whiskey turned to ice in my stomach.
I followed him anyway.