I need a weapon in heels.
I pause on her name.
Ivy Prescott.
The only woman I’ve ever fucked who didn’t ask me what I do for a living, because she already knew.
She doesn’t get attached.
Doesn’t pretend.
And most importantly…she knows Preston Caldwell.
A shared past. Some Ivy League cocktail circuit nostalgia. Nothing serious.
But just enough to make Camille twitch.
I call.
She answers like she’s been waiting. “Well, hello Daddy…”
“Dinner. Ashby Estate. Tonight.”
A pause. Just the sound of Ivy’s breath, low, smoky. Calculating. “On your arm or your leash?” she asks finally, amusement dripping from every word.
“Whichever hurts more.”
She laughs softly, a dangerous little purr. “Then it’s a date. Who’s the mark?”
“Caldwell.”
“Ah.” Her voice sharpens, interest sparking beneath the silk. “Playing games with the senator-to-be?”
“Playing to win.”
“Careful, Rivera. Those are deep waters.”
“Good,” I say. “I swim best there.”
She laughs. “God, I’ve missed you.”
“No, you haven’t,” I say, already texting her the address. “You just like a front row seat when I set the world on fire.”
“You do put on a hell of a show.”
“Wear black. Be sharp enough to draw blood without lifting a finger.”
“I always am.”
I hang up.
She’s perfect. Cold enough to get through the night. Pretty enough to catch Caldwell’s attention.
Familiar enough to twist the knife.
Let Camille smile.
Let her hold his hand and pretend she’s made peace with her curated little life.
