Page 27 of Beautiful Enemy

Ash: Where are you?

Harry: Debajo.

Ash: I’m worried about you. We both know what day it is.

I frown. Of course he’s thinking about it too. Not even the French-press coffee—which I’ve been having the past three days—could snap me out of my melancholy this morning.

I don’t respond, and another text comes moments later.

Ash: Speaking of problems, Christian’s gala this weekend. Will Mischa be there?

Harrison: He had better not be.

I need to get important business done with our host.

Mischa Ivanov’s presence would be more than a complication.

I’d rather eat glass than be in that room with my business rival—both because the business I want to do is more easily conducted without him and because of the woman who’s been publicly on his arm for months.

I shove the phone back in my pocket, feeling the change in energy in the club before I look up.

Rae is in the booth, and suddenly I get the “American Dream” theme Leni has been pushing all weekend on social.

Tonight my little American is wearing a platinum wig and a white halter-neck vest and trousers, like a girl-next-door Marilyn Monroe pinup. Except her hair is twisted and spiked.

Not a goddess. A monster.

An arrogant Medusa.

In a room full of people trying to attract one another, she’s practically daring anyone look too long.

I shift over the railing, entranced.

When I brought her here, I did my due diligence. I wouldn’t let just anyone play my club. But now, watching her play…

Her music lacks the echoing numbness of house tracks. It’s melodic. Intimate.

It’s impossible to recognize her as the girl making faces in my kitchen.

In fact, I’ve only seen her a few times since the run in that left me drinking her coffee and imagining how she tasted instead.

But all of my suits in my wardrobe are accounted for and the pool hasn’t acquired any new textiles to clog the filter, so I suppose that’s progress.

I stay for the set, half listening to the men I’m entertaining while inwardly hoping Rae can weave the same spell on me that she weaves on the crowd.

I want to forget the things Mischa Ivanov has done. The things I said to my mother before she died. The vows I made after, that they wouldn’t die in vain.

To give up every shred of my own expectations and lose myself in what this woman is creating.

After a few tracks, I look over to see her pressing a hand to her head like she did in the kitchen.

She said it wasn’t withdrawal.

Whatever it is, I’m not taking chances.

I motion to security upstairs, pointing at the stage. “Get her water.”

“Mr. King, I’m sure there’s water—”

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