I wasn’t sure how I survived seeing Brock, here, with her. He watched me all night from her side, face unreadable, drink in one hand, the other on her waist as she flitted around the ballroom. It was almost unbearable to watch, a shocking alternate universe—or universal joke—that I had to witness my ex on the arm of the biggest client of my career.

And I couldn’t get mad. I couldn’t be sad. I couldn’t be bitter, and I couldn’t be petty. So I packed each emotion in its own little box and stuffed it in the basement of my heart so I could do my job.

And I did the shit out of my job.

Every course was perfectly timed, flawlessly cooked, and the exact temperature it was supposed to be, which I was sure Natasha triple-checked. The DJ’s set went off without a hitch or a hiccup. The speeches were made in her honor, and the champagne flowed with effervescent ease. And by the end of dinner, Natasha seemed to have forgotten all about me.

My only respite was Kash.

He’d changed into slacks and a button-down, both straining to contain his massive form. His tie was perfectly knotted, which I’d never realized was a turn on. But it was. I imagined his big, rough hands tying that knot and decided I’d have him put it back on after he tied me up with it.

As reassuring as I’d been about the hired cars, I’d immediately known it was going to be a problem, and it was. Saturday night in Manhattan was the first strike. I’d booked the cars months ago in order to reserve enough to cart every person she knew—and their agents, producers, or groupies—to the club. As predicted, they had no extra cars, but somehow, we found a fleet in New Jersey, thanks to some strong words, a few phone calls, and the promise of an inflated rate.

With the chaos of the cars, I wouldn’t get to the club in advance of the caravan to make sure everything was ready. So I sent my best intern to make sure Noir was in place, as nervous as that made me.

And so at two-after-ten, I found myself waiting at the curb under the awning, staring down Fifth, looking for thirty Escalades, ten of which were, by my estimation, going to be late.

I heard the birthday crowd before the doors opened, and people flooded out. Drunken, obscenely rich people led by none other than Natasha Felix.

“I knew she wouldn’t get the cars,” she said too loudly. Her toadies laughed. “I never thought I’d see the day that Lila Parker actually fucked up.”

As if on cue, the first of a line of black SUVs rolled up.

“Aw, man,” Natasha whined when she saw them.