Page 102 of Ruin My Life

I’m hoping she doesn’t hold a grudge.

The guard posted outside her den sizes me up as we approach him. His gaze flicks behind me, landing on the twoshadows I brought with me—Connor, all quiet menace, and Damon, radiating unspoken violence.

“I already told you,” the guard grunts, puffing out his chest like a wolfdog trying to impress its handler, “Ms. DuBois isn’t taking in new clients. Don’t make me repeat myself a third time.”

I stop directly in front of him and lift my chin. I won’t be intimidated—not by hired muscle playing gatekeeper for a woman who’d rather have my head on a spike.

“Iamone of her clients,” I say coolly, injecting each syllable with calm authority. “Tell herThe Black Roseis here to meet with her.”

The name lands like a bullet. His eyes crawl down my body, then back up. Slowly. He has the look of a man trying to figure out if I’m bluffing—or if he just stepped into something far above his pay grade.

“You?” he snorts.

My smile holds no amusement. “Yes. Me—and my associates.” I angle my chin toward the men looming behind me. “Now let me in. Unless you’d prefer to waste Ms. DuBois’ time with your poor judgment.”

His lips curl into a sneer, but he disappears through the thick wooden door behind him, slipping behind a sweep of red velvet pinned to the wall. It sways gently in his wake like a curtain in a theatre just waiting to reveal the star of the show.

When he returns, his whole posture has changed. Stiffer. Tighter. His jaw is clenched hard enough to crack.

“Please, go ahead,” he mutters, holding the door open with one foot, his eyes fixed anywhere but on me.

I give him a curt nod and stride forward without hesitation. The air beyond the curtain changes immediately—warmer, thicker, laced with smoke and a hint of black cherry.

The back room isn’t large—maybe it would be, if it weren’t drowning in swaths of fabric. Red, orange, and pink silks drape the walls and ceiling, closing in the space like a womb. A low velvet couch curves along the far side like a snake coiled in on itself. And at its center, sprawled like royalty, isLola DuBois—flanked by two hulking men who look more like ornamental lovers than the guards I’m certain they are.

If the devil wore lipstick, this would be her.

Fiery red curls spill over one bare shoulder, and her crimson dress clings like it was sewn straight onto her body. She lounges with the ease of a woman who owns every inch of the room—one man running his fingers through her hair, the other massaging her calves with practiced reverence.

Her emerald eyes, sharp and feline, flick lazily over us as we enter. Then, like a queen waking from a dream, she rises, slow and languid, each movement fluid without disrupting the men wrapped around her.

“What a surprise,” she purrs, her voice rich as red wine and just as likely to stain. “Usually when you let a mouse go, it doesn’t come running back.”

I cross my arms, anchoring a snarl behind my teeth before it can escape. “I didn’t realizeletting me goinvolved sending a bounty hunter to collect me,” I snap.

She sighs, casting a glance at her nails like the whole conversation is beneath her. Blood-red polish gleams at each tip. “It’s just business, darling,” she says, like that absolves her of everything. “Though you have been a thorn in mine.”

“We want to know who hired you, Lola,” Damon growls from beside me, his voice low and tight, like a noose ready to snap. His glare is locked on her, sharp enough to cut through all the silk in the room.

Lola doesn’t flinch. She just rolls her eyes like he’s the one being dramatic. “Straight past the niceties, as always, Damon. Don’t you ever stop working?”

“Do you?” he shoots back, his voice flat and dangerous.

Her smile curls slowly, never quite reaching her eyes. “Never,” she says, crossing one leg over the other and lacing her fingers around her raised knee like we’re chatting over tea.

“I can offer you what I know,” she continues, her tone light. “But it’ll cost you.”

Connor grunts beside me, dragging a hand down his face. “Of course it will.”

His patience is hanging by a thread. And honestly? So is mine.

“I’m not paying unless the information is worth something,” Damon says, each word sharp as steel.

Lola’s brows lift in challenge. “It seemed worth it to The Black Rose,” she purrs, dragging her gaze to me like she’s peeling back my skin with her eyes. “Why don’t we askherwhat my information is worth?”

My spine stiffens. The room presses in close.

She’s talking about the photo.