The phone lit Norah’s trembling hand with David’s name, and for the first time all night, she was more afraid of the man calling than the men watching her.

The VIP lounge had gone silent around her.

The bass from the main floor was still thudding somewhere beneath the velvet walls, but up here it felt distant, like weather happening in another city.

Four bodyguards stood or sat around booth four with their attention sharpened on her every breath.

Roman Gallagher remained in the center of them, one forearm resting near his closed ledger, his glass of bourbon untouched on the cocktail napkin she had nearly dropped.

Norah could still hear her mistake in the air.

Here you go, baby.

A stupid, tired slip.

A nickname David had been throwing at her all night through text messages, softening every demand he made.

Somehow it had jumped from her exhaustion straight into Roman Gallagher’s private booth.

Roman had asked her to say it again, slower.

She had apologized.

She had mentioned David before she could stop herself.

Then her phone buzzed.

Answer it, Roman had said.

Put it on speaker.

Norah looked down at the newest message glowing beneath David’s name.

Tell your boss I’m coming in.

Her stomach sank.

David had never liked the Onyx Club.

He liked the tips she brought home.

He liked the leftovers from the kitchen and the free cigarettes he begged off bartenders when he bothered to pick her up.

But he hated that she worked in a place with velvet ropes and private rooms, where men in expensive jackets tipped her more in one night than he brought home in a week when he had work at all.

He especially hated the idea of Roman Gallagher.

He had said the name that morning with his feet on her coffee table and his breakfast plate balanced on his stomach, like Roman was a person from a movie instead of a man whose drink she had just served.

You ever bring home any of that rich-guy money? David had asked.

Norah had ignored him then because it was easier than fighting before a ten-hour shift.

Now Roman’s gray eyes were on her phone.

“Speaker,” he repeated.

It was not loud.

It did not need to be.

Norah swallowed.

“Mr.

Gallagher, he’s not—he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“That is usually true of men who announce themselves before walking into places they should avoid.” Roman’s gaze did not shift.

“Answer.”

Her thumb slid across the screen.

David’s voice burst out before she could say a word.

“Finally.

What the hell, Norah?”

One of the guards’ eyebrows twitched.

Norah closed her eyes for half a second.

“I’m at work.”

“I know where you are.” David sounded breathless, angry, maybe drunk, maybe just high on his own nerve.

“I’m outside.

Tell whoever runs that place I’m coming in, because I’m sick of you acting like you’re too good to pick up the phone.”

Norah felt her face burn.

Shame spread hotter than fear for one terrible second.

Not because Roman Gallagher heard David being cruel, but because everyone did.

The guards.

The private suite.

The expensive bottle on the bar.

The whole night.

Roman leaned back, watching her as if the call had become more interesting than the