After His Mother Took My Hearing, I Took Everything

The lounge smelled like money and bad decisions.

Cigar smoke, expensive cologne, the faint sweetness of champagne that cost more per bottle than my weekly paycheck. I moved through it all with a tray balanced on my palm, my heels silent on the marble floor, my smile fixed and practiced and completely hollow.

Four years ago, I would have been a guest here. Tonight, I was part of the furniture.

I spotted Reed Thompson the moment he walked in.

He hadn't changed much. Taller, maybe. Broader in the shoulders. He wore a charcoal suit that probably cost six thousand dollars, and he carried himself like a man who'd never once questioned his right to take up space. He had two men flanking him—assistants, bodyguards, I couldn't tell—and a smile that he flashed at the hostess like he was doing her a favor.

My fingers tightened around the edge of my tray.

I tilted my head slightly to the right, an old habit, and watched him scan the room. His gaze moved the way it always had—lazy, possessive, like everything in his line of sight already belonged to him.

Then he found me.

I saw it happen. The small pause. The way his jaw went still mid-sentence. The slow blink, like he needed a second to confirm I was real.

I turned away first. I set two glasses of champagne down at table seven, smiled at the man who tried to touch my wrist, and moved on. My heart was beating fast, but my face was calm. I'd practiced this. I'd practiced it for years.

I didn't look back at Reed.

I didn't have to. Twenty minutes later, my manager, Paul, appeared at my elbow. He was sweating slightly, which he only did when someone with serious money was asking for something he wasn't sure I'd agree to.

"Reed Thompson," he said quietly. "He's requesting you personally. Private lounge, rest of the evening." He paused. "He's paying triple the premium rate."

Triple.

I kept my smile exactly where it was. "Of course," I said. "Tell him I'll be right over."

Paul looked relieved. I felt nothing.

I found Reed in the corner booth of the private lounge, the one with low amber lighting and a view of the city. He stood when he saw me coming, which surprised me. Old manners, buried under new money.

"Elizabeth." My name in his mouth sounded like he was tasting something he'd been craving for a long time.

"Mr. Thompson." I set a fresh glass in front of him and smiled. "What can I get for you tonight?"

Something shifted in his expression. A flash of something—irritation, maybe, or pain. "Sit down."

It wasn't a question.

I sat.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and looked at me the way he always had. Like I was a problem he was entitled to solve. "You look good," he said.

"Thank you." I folded my hands in my lap. Under the table, my fingers found the seam of my skirt and pressed down. "You seem well yourself."

"Stop it." His voice dropped. "Don't do that. Don't talk to me like I'm some customer."

"You are a customer."

"Elizabeth."

I held his gaze and said nothing.

He exhaled. Reached up and adjusted his watch—a thick, gold-faced thing that caught the light. "Come back to my place tonight. We need to talk. Properly."

I let the silence stretch for exactly three seconds. Long enough to look uncertain. Short enough to look like I was considering it.

"Okay," I said quietly.

His penthouse was on the forty-second floor of a building that had gone up two years ago, all glass and sharp angles. He poured scotch he didn't offer me and stood by the window with the city spread out below us like he owned that too.

"I know what you think of me," he said. "But what I did—it wasn't about hurting you. You have to understand that."

I sat on the edge of his white sofa and kept my hands folded. "I know," I said softly.

He turned. Something in him loosened. "I want us to start over. I mean it, Elizabeth. I've never stopped—"

"Reed." I looked up at him with the most careful, fragile expression I owned. "Can I use your bathroom? I just need a minute."

He nodded, already moving toward me.

"Take your time," he said.

I walked down the hall. I did not go to the bathroom.

His laptop was open on the desk in his study, screen still glowing. He'd been working before he came to the lounge. Sloppy. The kind of careless that came from never once believing anyone could touch you.

I sat down. Pulled the small drive from inside my bra. Plugged it in.

My fingers moved fast and quiet over the keys. The files were almost embarrassingly easy to find—TechSource's internal accounts, offshore transfers, the kind of numbers that would make a federal prosecutor's year.

The download bar filled slowly. Forty seconds. Fifty.

In the living room, I could hear Reed pouring another drink.

I watched the screen and tapped a slow, silent scale against my thigh. C, D, E, F, G.

The bar hit one hundred percent.

I pulled the drive. Stood. Smoothed my skirt.

Then I walked back out to the man who had destroyed my life, and I smiled at him like I was glad to be there.