Page 32 of Desperate Games

Another charity gala—just another night of rich people pretending they care more about the cause than their own Instagram stories.

Happens every month when your last name opens doors in Manhattan.

This one’s being held at some new rooftop venue in Tribeca.

Late summer.

Views of the Hudson.

The theme is Golden Hour Glamor.

And yeah, I have the perfect dress.

A silky gold slip that skims over all my curves and makes my skin glow like I’ve swallowed sunshine. It hugs my hips just right and falls off my shoulders like a promise.

I was supposed to be out the door by now.

But here I am.

Sweaty palms. Pacing. Panicking.

Because it all sounded so simple over the phone.

Step one: Call in a favor from my cousin-in-law, who just happens to work for my uncle at Sigma International Group. Get assigned a bodyguard. A familiar one. Preferably the one who makes my heart stutter like a teenage girl with a glittery Vampire crush.

Step two: Go to the party. Make a brief appearance. Ditch early.

Step three: Seduce him. Get pregnant. Fulfill the baby-making phase of my plan without the messy entanglement of a relationship.

Boom. Done.

Only nothing feels simple now.

Because the bodyguard I requested? Remy Falco?

Every time I think about him, my stomach does this weird flip.

Like a rollercoaster drop you didn’t sign up for.

My skin tingles. My thighs clench. And my chest gets tight in a way that’s not entirely hormonal.

Which is exactly why I shouldn’t do this.

I should cancel.

I should pretend I’m sick. Or that a rodent came back and I need to burn the building down. Anything but follow through with this half-baked, wildly reckless plan.

I’m two seconds from calling Clementine to talk me out of it when?—

Knock knock.

I freeze.

My breath catches in my throat. My hands go clammy.

The door.

God, please don’t let it be a neighbor or my landlord or—worse—my mother.