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“Ican’tlose my inheritance, Damian,” I growl.

“Then don’t,” he says. “Complete the challenge. By any means necessary.”

I consider his words carefully. And I have to ask myself if Damian plans to use any means necessary—even cheat—when the time to complete his challenge comes.

I know he’s right. That I have to do whatever it takes.

Even if it includes deceit.

Because what I’ve been asked to do is impossible. Even if I wanted to introduce my family to Darla, I couldn’t.

“Good luck. Seems like you’ll need it,” he says. “And I look forward to meeting Darla.” He gets up to leave, and the turquoise hair across the room catches my eye.

She’s at the bar again, her back to me. My gaze instantly drops to her ass.

The blonde waitress blocks my view as she hurries to assist Damian. As he flatters her with a probably exorbitant tip, I check my phone.

I have a new text message from my head of security, and I open it immediately.

For sixteen days, I’ve been pressing him for a solution to my problem.

And for sixteen days, he’s given me one answer.

Quinn Monroe.

Chapter 2

Quinn

Inotice him right away.

The man in black in the corner booth. He’s not even seated anywhere near my section, but from the moment I start my shift, he’s watching me.

You don’t miss a man like that. Especially when he’s staring at you.

It’s early Wednesday evening, and already Velvet Lounge is filling up with the after-work executive crowd; the wealthy elite and those who hope to meet them. The lounge sprawls across the mezzanine floor of Vance Tower, one of the tallest and most opulent buildings in downtown Vancouver. It’s posh, expensive, and luxurious, and we, the cocktail waitresses, are an extension of the sumptuous decor.

I can’t really blame anyone for staring at us in our tiny, black velvet shorts, and strapless black bustier tops. It’s little more than lingerie.

But there’s something different about the way he looks at me.

It’s like he knows I’m just a lamb in disguise—because he’s the wolf.

He’s dressed entirely in black, a fine suit, no tie, crisp shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His brown hair is so dark it’s almost black, too. His skin is pale, his features sharp, his lips lush, and even across the chandelier-lit lounge I can feel the force of his eyes.

“Ugh, he’s alone now.” The waitress standing next to me at the bar smoothes her blonde curls dramatically. “There is no way I can keep serving him. I don’t care if he’s in my section. I will explode in tears if he scowls at me one more time with those villainous cyborg eyes.”

“So, make the new girl do it.”

I don’t mean to eavesdrop on my coworkers, but they’re right beside me as I input a drink order. The blonde loads drinks onto her cocktail tray, sinfully voluptuous in her little black uniform. Her name is Alessandra, or so I’m told; maybe she’ll tell me her real name once she gets to know me better.

We all have beautiful fake names in here. Mine is Dominique, which is weirdly exotic for a plain-Jane brunette with a passion for baking, even with the recent turquoise dye job. I’m told the fake names are to protect our privacy. But of course they’re also because everything is a glamorous illusion in this place.

“Make the new girl do… what?” I inquire, sliding my empty drink tray onto the bar beside Alessandra’s. Is she talking about Mr. Black? The man who’s been watching me from the corner booth? He sure fits her description. Sitting alone. Scowling. The men in this lounge generally aren’t doing either of those things.

“I’m sure he’s an excellent tipper,” she says, not sounding sure. “You probably won’t ever have to see him again anyway. I haven’t seen him in months. He, like, never comes in.”

“Which really makes the new girl wonder why you don’t want to serve him…” I say apprehensively.