Page 8 of Broken Doll (Dirty Doll Ops #1)

I t’s go time.

Except Killion changed the plan—last minute, of course.

I was supposed to meet Victor at the glitzy fundraiser, but Killion said there were too many eyes.

Now? I’m ambushing him at the hotel bar.

Victor’s a creature of habit.

He always stops for a hit of liquid courage before slipping on his philanthropist mask.

The nerves are locked down beneath the armor of high-end lingerie, smoky eyes, and the kind of perfume that makes men think about sinning twice.

My mission? Get close to Victor Reese.

Make him talk. Make him give.

Then disappear before the illusion shatters.

I've got the protocol burned into my brain like a cattle brand. I know what to say, what to wear, how to breathe. But there's still that ragged edge inside me, that wild chaos that no amount of Killion's training can tame. Good. I need it. It's the only thing keeping me from becoming a complete fucking robot.

The bar's a velvet abyss—low lighting dripping from crystal chandeliers, casting flickering shadows across mahogany walls polished to a deep, sinful gleam. Bottles of high-end liquor line the black marble bar, their amber and gold glinting like loot under soft spotlights. A slow, seductive jazz hum curls through the air—saxophone moaning low, weaving through the clink of glasses and the murmur of hushed deals.

Isaac wouldn't last five minutes in a place like this.

He'd be fumbling with his wallet, sweating through his JCPenney suit, ordering a fucking Budweiser. Poor bastard believes I'm at an extended girls’ trip.

If only he knew his wife was being deployed like a nuclear warhead in Louboutins.

It's a millionaire's sandbox, where corruption slips between crisp linen napkins and the creases of tailored suits like it's currency. The air's thick with it—money, sharp and heady, mingling with expensive cologne, old-world whiskey, and that baked-in tang of greed and lust, as if the walls have drunk every dirty whisper traded here.

I can practically taste the testosterone and privilege, metallic on my tongue like blood-tinted champagne.

I step inside like I fucking own it.

Because tonight, I do.

My heels—black stilettos, sharp as switchblades—strike the marble floor, each click a deliberate pulse, confident, the beat of a woman who's never questioned her pull. The dress clings like a second skin, emerald green and sleek, hugging every curve, dipping low to bare the tops of my tits, slit high to flash thigh with every step—a weapon stitched to kill.

The brunette wig's pinned into a tight chignon, a few strands loose, brushing my neck like a tease.

Blue contacts sharpen my gaze, icy and untouchable, cutting through the haze.

Every inch of me's been crafted for Victor Reese—a seduction algorithm executed to perfection—and my skin buzzes, adrenaline licking my veins. I'm dangerous tonight, a loaded gun with the safety off.

I scan the room, cataloging exits, security cameras, potential problems. Killion would be proud.

Or he'd find seventeen ways I've already fucked up.

Either way, his voice is in my head now, a constant drill sergeant barking orders: Watch your surroundings.

Control your breathing.

Remember your cover.

God, I hate how good his training feels.

Like slipping into a second skin that fits better than my own.

He's watching me.

Corner booth, half-swallowed by shadow, a neat glass of whiskey in hand—Macallan 25, I'd bet my ass on it—the ice melting slow, a sheen of condensation slicking the crystal.

Mid-forties, but he wears his wealth like a crown, arrogance rolling off him in waves—the casual sprawl of his legs, the tilt of his wrist flashing a gold Rolex.

His suit's navy, cut to a razor's edge, hugging broad shoulders and a lean frame.

Dark hair slicked back, jaw sharp and clean-shaven, green eyes glinting predatory in the dim light, tracking me like a wolf sizing up a meal.

In another life, I'd have ignored him completely. Too smug. Too calculated. Too much like he practices his smile in the mirror while jerking off. But tonight, he's the mission.

And if there's one thing I'm learning in this fucked-up new career of mine, it's that the mission trumps everything—including my gag reflex.

I let my lips curve, a slow, knowing smirk—half tease, half dare—and saunter straight for him, hips swaying just enough to snag every eye in the room. The booth's leather groans as I slide in uninvited, crossing my legs so the slit flashes a sliver of thigh—smooth, pale, a hook he can't dodge.

"Victor Reese," I purr, voice low and smoky, dripping with sin as I settle close, letting my perfume—vanilla, amber, a dark bite—hit him. "Hope I'm not crashing your little solo party."

Look at me, acting like his name's a spell I just discovered, not something I've been reciting while staring at his photo for days. If he only knew I could draw a map of every mole on his body from memory.

He tilts his glass, studying me over the rim, those green eyes flickering with amusement—and something hotter, hungrier—before taking a slow sip. The whiskey slides down his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing, and he sets the glass down with a soft clink, fingers lingering on the crystal.

"I don't believe we've met," he says, voice smooth as velvet, edged with a cocky lilt that says he's used to women tripping over themselves to climb his dick.

"Oh, we haven't." I extend my hand, palm down, regal as a queen waiting for worship. The emerald ring—borrowed from whatever black-budget closet Sienna raided—catches the light, a flash of green that matches my dress. Another calculated detail. Another hook.

He takes it—his grip warm, firm, a little too tight—and his fingers skim my knuckles, slow and deliberate, testing me, trying to throw me off. I've played this game since I was old enough to bat my lashes—I let my nails graze his skin as I pull back, a whisper of friction that says I could linger, if you're worth it.

He exhales—soft, a hiss through his teeth—and I clock it, a chink in his smug armor. My pulse kicks, a thrill sparking low in my gut. It's almost disappointing how easy this is.

Men like Victor think they're apex predators, but really they're just walking hard-ons with platinum cards.

"Then tell me," he leans in, elbows on the table, voice dropping to a husky murmur that's all bedroom and boardroom, "who's gracing my bed tonight?"

I smile, lashes dipping just enough to reel him in—Killion's training snapping into place, muscle memory I didn't have six weeks ago. "You can call me Lydia," I say, voice silk-wrapped gravel, letting the crass edge peek through.

Lydia. Not Landry. The switchover feels like slipping into a warm bath—too easy, too comfortable. Should that worry me? Probably. Does it? Not as much as it fucking should.

His lips quirk—he knows it's fake, doesn't give a shit—and he leans back, swirling his whiskey, watching the amber churn like he's got all the time in the world. "You came straight to me," he muses, voice low, smug. "Most women circle, play hard to get, wait for me to call the shots."

I arch a brow, letting my foot nudge his under the table—a brush, a spark, old-school bold. "And I have a feeling most women bore you," I say, crude slipping through the polish, and his eyes flash, intrigue hooking deep, his smirk widening like I've just handed him a prize. "I'm the kind of woman who likes to get straight to the point."

He studies me, gaze dropping to my chest, my legs, then back to my lips, lingering like he's already picturing them wrapped around him.

The air between us thickens, charged with something dark and hungry.

The scent of his cologne—something expensive, sandalwood and citrus—mingles with the whiskey on his breath.

My stomach twists—not with disgust, but with a sick thrill.

The game's always been the high for me, and this? This is the ultimate game. The stakes higher, the rush sharper.

"And what do you do, Lydia?" He asks, setting the game in motion, voice caressing my fake name like it's a secret he's keeping.

I lean forward, slow and deliberate, letting him catch my scent, see the shadow between my tits. "I make men like you…" I pause, licking my lips, slow and filthy, "very, very happy."

Christ, could this script be any more on the nose? It's like fucking Cinemax After Dark dialogue, but he's eating it up with a goddamn spoon. Note to self: Men with money are just as easy as men without it—they just have fancier packaging.

My voice drops to a whisper—crude, velvet-drenched—and his pupils blow wide, breath hitching, a bulge twitching under that pricey suit. He's snared, caught in my web, and I let the silence stretch, let him stew in it, the tease of me just out of reach.

"You're bold," he says, voice rougher now, leaning in, his knee brushing mine—a test, a claim. "I like that. Most girls play coy, think it's cute. You—you're different."

"Different's my middle name," I shoot back, smirking, letting my fingers trail the edge of his glass, brushing his hand—a tease from training, a taunt from me.

"You strike me as a guy who gets what he wants. Am I right?"

The ice in his glass clinks as I brush against it, the sound sharp in the low murmur of the bar.

Somewhere behind us, a woman laughs—too loud, too bright—and the band shifts to something slower, darker, the bass thrumming through the floor like a heartbeat.

He chuckles, low and dark, sipping his whiskey, eyes never leaving mine.

The liquor catches the light, glowing amber against his lips.

"You could say that."

I chuckle, the sound low and throaty.

"Must be nice to be the king." My tone's light, flirty, but there's a bite —and his grin widens, eating it up.

Men like him never get the joke—they think they're in on it, when really they're the punchline.

It really shouldn't be this easy. But that's the thing about power—the more you have, the more blind spots you collect.

A trickle of sweat slides down my spine, caught by the silk of my dress.

The air around us feels thick, charged, the noise of the bar fading to a distant hum.

“Tell me,” he prompts, voice a low murmur that straddles boardroom command and bedroom promise, “what is it you’re really after, sweetheart?”

I smile, lashes dipping just enough to reel him in.

"I'm not complicated. I like good drinks, expensive things, and men who don't waste my time pretending they're looking for something they're not."

Look at me, playing the high-class escort like I've done this my whole life. Killion would be proud. Or he'd find seventeen reasons I'm about to get myself killed. Either way, I'm in it now, drowning in this role, and fuck if it doesn't feel good to be someone else for a night.

That earns a smirk—he's charmed by the bluntness, turned on by the lack of pretense.

A muscle in his jaw twitches, and I know I've got him. He slides closer, the heat of his thigh pressing against mine through the thin silk of my dress.

"Direct. I like that. Saves us both time," he says, signaling for another drink with a flick of his fingers. The bartender notices immediately, nodding with practiced deference. "I’m supposed to be somewhere tonight but you’re making it hard for me to leave. Did you do that on purpose?"

The jazz changes, something with a mournful trumpet that sounds like sex and regret had a baby. The lights seem to dim, cocoon us in our little corner of sin. His cologne wraps around me—expensive, masculine, with an undercurrent of something sharper, chemical.

I laugh, soft and dismissive, letting my fingers trail the rim of his glass. The crystal is cool against my skin, slick with condensation. "What can I say? When I see something delicious, I want a taste.”

His gaze rakes me up and down as he murmurs, “Same.”

He watches me for a beat—long enough that I wonder if I pushed too hard, then he nods, slowly, eyes glittering in the low light like a predator's.

"Paid company with personality," he muses. "That's a rare find."

If only you knew, silly boy. I'm a government-issued honeytrap with daddy issues and a license to mindfuck. But tonight, I'm whatever fantasy you need me to be.

I feign a pout, letting my bottom lip jut out just enough to draw his gaze. "Don't tell me you're the type who just wants a warm body and silence."

"No," he admits, voice dropping an octave, rough around the edges. "I like a little bite. Something to chase. But only if I know it won't bite back."

There it is—his fear, his need for control wrapped in bravado. He wants to feel like the one in power, even when he's being seduced. Especially then. The air between us is electric now, charged with something dark and hungry that has nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with power.

I press my knee into his beneath the table, lean in like I'm letting him in on a secret. My perfume—that custom blend designed to hook into his lizard brain—surrounds us both now. "Then let's not pretend. You tell me what you want, and I'll be exactly that. No more, no less."

His breath catches, jaw tight, pupils darkening. A vein pulses in his neck, blue beneath expensive skin. "And if I want you on your knees blowing me in the executive washroom?”

"Then I hope you lock the door unless you prefer an audience."

Fuck me, this is almost too easy. Like taking candy from a baby, if the baby was a horny millionaire with a God complex.

He laughs, the sound low and dangerous, teeth flashing white in the dim light. The fresh drink arrives—amber liquid in cut crystal, delivered by a server who keeps his eyes carefully averted. He takes a sip, eyes locked on mine over the rim. "You're good," he says, voice lower now, intimate as a secret. "Too good."

I shrug, letting the smile linger on my lips. The heavy weight of the pendant around my neck—another calculated detail, another hook—rests against my skin, cool and solid. "Just good at what I do."

"You a regular?" he asks, eyeing me again, gaze sharper now, more calculating. "Or new talent?"

The question hangs between us, weighted with suspicion. My pulse kicks up, but I keep my face smooth, my smile easy. This moment—this is what Killion drilled into me. The pivot point where everything could shatter or lock into place.

"Let's just say I'm very exclusive." I dip my fingers into his glass, swirl the ice, bring one to my lips, suck it slow. The whiskey burns, smoky and rich, coating my tongue. His breath audibly hitches, the sound almost lost in the murmur of the bar.

He leans in, close enough that I can count the flecks of gold in his green eyes, see the fine lines at their corners that no amount of expensive skincare can erase. "Well, I'm very good at spotting when something's…off."

There it is. The flicker of suspicion. The moment where the mask could slip, where the whole game could unravel. My heart pounds against my ribs, but I don't let it show.

Instead, I lean into the danger, into the razor's edge of discovery.

And here's where we find out if Killion's training was worth a damn. Time to earn my keep, whatever the fuck that is.

But I keep the act up—smile tighter, hand sliding to his thigh, keeping the fantasy alive. His muscle tenses beneath my touch, hard and solid through the expensive fabric of his suit. "Then I guess you'll just have to figure me out, won't you?"

"Hmm." He finishes his drink, sets it down with a deliberate clink, and then—abruptly—his hand clamps over mine. Tight. Cold.

And under the table, I feel it. A blade. Pressed just below my hip, the pressure slight but unmistakable through the thin silk of my dress.

"Let's see who's really in control tonight, Lydia."

Well, shit. This wasn't in the training manual.

The steel doesn't waver—cool metal against my skin, a ticking bomb waiting to explode. My pulse hammers, blood rushing in my ears like a freight train, but outwardly, I don't flinch.

Don't panic. Just let my smile widen, slow and dangerous as sunrise.

"My, my," I breathe, letting a thrill edge my voice, "aren't you full of surprises?"

Is Landry's first assignment her last? Or will she become Killion's most dangerous doll?

Victor's blade presses into my hip, cold metal against warm silk. My pulse pounds but my smile never falters. Six weeks ago, I was a bored housewife chasing thrills in sex clubs. Now I'm a weapon—molded by Killion's brutal training, sharpened by Sienna's ruthless lessons.

"Let's see who's really in control tonight," Victor whispers, his breath hot against my neck.

What he doesn't know is that Landry James died the moment I signed that contract. What emerged is something far deadlier, something that hungers for more than just a cheap high.

As the knife trembles against my skin, one thought burns brighter than fear: I was born for this game.

Want more? ROGUE DOLL, Book 2 in the Dirty Doll Ops series, is where shit really hits the fan.