Page 75 of Lavish

Heart pounding, I moved fast, pressing myself into the tight space just as the door creaked open. The smell of old paper and wood polish filled my nose as I wedged myself as far back as I could.

Alan stepped inside, his shoes clicking against the floor.

A pause. Then the scrape of a chair.

A drawer opened. The same one I’d just closed.

My breath felt trapped in my lungs as I watched through the tiny sliver of space.

Alan’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. The screen glowed as he typed something, then stilled. His brow furrowed. The cursor flickered. A beat of silence.

He exhaled sharply. “What the hell?”

My stomach twisted.

He tapped a few keys. Still nothing. My heart slammed against my ribs as he grabbed his phone and snapped a picture of the screen.

Then, with a frustrated huff, he slammed the laptop shut. Stood. Pocketed his phone.

And walked out.

I waited. Counted the seconds. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.

The hallway outside remained silent.

I slipped out of my hiding spot, my legs stiff, my body wired with adrenaline. I moved carefully—silent steps, no fingerprints, no evidence.

The laptop was closed tight. No getting in. I took a photo of the office. Just one. No flash.

One step into the hallway my heels were hitting the carpet too hard. I needed to get out. Now.

Through the lobby and past clusters of guests still sipping expensive scotch, past waiters balancing silver trays. My breath felt too loud in my own ears, but I kept moving.

What did I just do?

The second I hit the front doors, I didn’t stop.

I stepped into the cool night air and kept walking, heels sharp against the stone, every nerve lit like a live wire.

My heart was racing—but not from fear. Notjustfear.

Something darker. I knew I shouldn’t feel this way. It wasn’t the right sensation. The kind of sick exhilaration I hadn’t experienced in years. I’d forgotten howalivethis made me. The rush.

I hated it.

I loved it.

And I couldn’t stop smiling.

CHAPTER 17

Miles

I walked into the gym,the smell of sweat, mixed with the sharp, almost medicinal tang of disinfectant, hitting me first.

It wasn’t the high-stakes poker game I thought it would be.

Slayer’s Gym was a total dive compared to my usual spots. Expensive workout equipment gleamed under the bright lights, a stark contrast to the rough texture of the bare brick walls. A couple of fighters were going at it in the ring, their sharp, practiced moves punctuated by the thud of fists and the squeak of shoes.