She wouldn’t allow it. Nat was no longer the naive, vulnerable girl Cole had known back in Blaine. She’d discovered new depths to her resolve, new lengths to which she was willing to go to sustain her life in New York. Two years ago, she could never have imagined she’d be getting paid to date older men. But now she was. And if Cole Doberinsky came for her, she would be ready for him. If he threatened the life she had built here, she would fight back. She would do whatever it took to protect herself.

They were uptown now, the streets widening, lightening, glowing like they’d been scrubbed clean of the city’s grit and grime. Nat did not come here often, but it still felt familiar: the park, the museums, the buildings, all so iconic.

“It feels like a movie,” she mumbled, gazing at the passing scenery.

“It does.” The deep voice came from her chauffeur.

Nat leaned forward. “I always feel that way when I come up here. I’m from a small town, far away.”

“Me, too.”

“How long have you lived here?” she asked.

“Many years now,” he said, in his undetermined accent. Russian maybe? “But sometimes, I still feel like I’ve landed on another planet.”

“I feel that way about twice a day.”

The driver chuckled. “A strange but familiar planet.”

Nat liked this avuncular man, felt an instant rapport with him. But then she remembered why she was in the back seat of his car. He was driving her to meet her sugar daddy. He knew what was about to happen. He knew what she was. What did he think of her?

The car pulled up in front of a quaint French bistro set below street level. “We’re here,” he announced.

“Thanks.”

The muscular man, in his mid-to-late forties, was already getting out of the driver’s seat, moving around to open the door for her. He took her hand and helped her out without a whiff of judgment.

“Mr. Turnmill is already inside.”

Gabe Turnmill. Ava had told her to get his full name, had told her to google him. Oops. Again.

“Thanks for the ride, uh . . . ?”

“Oleg,” the driver said with a slight nod. “Nice to meet you, Natalie.”

She smiled, appreciating his warmth, his acceptance. “Nice to meet you, too.”

With some difficulty, Nat descended the steps to the establishment’s front door (a pencil skirt and heels did not pair well with stairs). Inside, she found a classic French bistro: a black-and-white-tiled floor, linen table cloths, orangey-red roses in bud vases. The walls were papered in vertical stripes of gold and cream, the lamplight giving the room, and its well-heeled patrons, a flattering glow.

She spotted him instantly, seated at a secluded back table. Gabe was dressed more casually than the last time she’d seen him. He wore a tweedy sports coat over a crisp white shirt and a pair of jeans. On the table sat that same amber drink, and her stomach churned with remembrance. Gabe was fixated on his phone, but he must have sensed her presence hovering at the door. He looked up and smiled, his blue eyes twinkling, even from this distance. He was handsome, she realized. And not just for his age.