Page 27 of The Lies of Bryn van Doren

“That’ll be fine. I presume this can be arranged for tonight?”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” he replies exuberantly.

“Ten o’clock, then.”

“Until then, Mr. Morgan.”

Both men hang up at the same time, Khalohn staring at his phone for a moment before returning it to his pocket. With his evening plans now made, he no longer finds himself wanting to wade back into the recesses of his mind, lost in the view draped in front of him. He returns to his desk and picks up his copy ofThe Journal, resuming the article he abandoned. When he starts to grow hungry, he decides he’s finished with the print. He then makes two calls—one to his favorite Thai restaurant, and the other to Atzel. Ten minutes later, his office as undisturbed as it was when he arrived, he takes his leave.

As he approaches the Maybach, his paper underneath his arm, he nods at his faithful driver, who holds open the backseat door with an extended hand. Khalohn gives him the paper before folding himself into the vehicle, and they are soon zipping through the streets, heading for the Upper East Side. On their journey, he directs his gaze out the window, watching as the evening sun casts shadows throughout the city. It’s quiet—the absence of the weekday buzz seeping into the silence of his smooth ride—the heat from the first days of August sending the city dwellers to the Hamptons or out onto the water surrounding their corner of the world. In the silence, his mind drifts in remembrance of the phone call he had a couple hours earlier.

Khalohn wonders what treasure he may be unearthing later that night. He’s never been offered the rights of first touch before. Even more, he’s never even considered asking. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s willing to admit such a detail has not mattered to him until now. More than a woman’s tenure at Clandestine’s, he simply wishes not to have her in his bed over the two-night limit he has set. He’s not taken the time to consider how much he’s invested in his sex life or how Beatrice manages to maintain hercollection.He doesn’t care. He’s paying for the best money can buy; he expects not to be disappointed, and Beatrice has been delivering for two years. Now this.

He’s not arrogant or ignorant. He knows his reputation in the extravagant underground world he inhabits as frequently as he likes. The thought of ruining this woman for any other who may darken the various doorways of the clandestine space almost brings a smile to his face. He promises himself he’ll take his time with her, worshiping her body as the untarnished offering he believes her to be.

When Atzel opens his door upon reaching their destination, Khalohn gets out and informs him, “I’m going out tonight. I’d like you to return in two hours.”

“Yes, Mr. Morgan.”

Without further instructions, Khalohn climbs the steps toward the double doors that grant him entrance inside. As he passes through, a slim Asian man hurries by him. He’s barely into the lobby when the concierge behind the large front desk greets Khalohn with a warm smile, his teeth strikingly white in contrast with his smooth, dark skin.

“Good evening, Mr. Morgan,” he says, his British accent somehow adding to the deep, rich tone of his voice. “Your dinner has arrived. I was just getting ready to have it brought up.”

“No need.”

“Very good, sir,” he says, holding out the closed paper bag with his white gloved hand.

Khalohn thanks him, taking his dinner on his way to the elevator. The doors slide open without a sound, shutting only after he’s keyed in the code granting him access to his unit. The smell of noodles, spicy chicken, and shrimp fills the lift car, and his hunger increases. There’s a small chime when the elevator reaches the fifteenth floor, where he steps out, heading through his foyer and straight for the kitchen.

He spots the half-completed crossword puzzle from last week’sSunday New York Timesright where he left it, abandoned on the corner of his expansive marble island. He unpacks his dinner, snapping the wooden chopsticks apart with ease, not even bothering to sit down before he takes his first bite. As he chews, he focuses his attention on the black and gray boxes on the folded newsprint. He’s surprised when his dinner is gone. Flipping his wrist, he notes the time, then allows himself another ten minutes to complete the puzzle.

He’s done and in the shower in eight.

In spite of the extra time he spends on his beard, he’s dressed and ready to leave with twenty minutes to spare. He could be on his way with no delay after two simple calls, but he walks to his office instead. Logging into his computer, he decides to spend a few minutes glancing at the emails he neglected earlier in the day. He sees an unread message from Lorelai and clicks on it right away. Over the last week, she’s done a fine job of handling the Pier House Resorts proposal. As he peruses her notes, he’s sure it won’t be long before contracts are drawn up and prices are negotiated. He was right to let her take the lead.

Khalohn replies to her email with one of his own, following up with a few instructions. Once it’s sent, he finds he has another five minutes to spare. With no patience remaining, he closes his computer and starts for the elevator. It’s no surprise, when he steps out of the lobby, Atzel is already waiting.

Jessica stares ather reflection in the gorgeous vanity mirror, trying to pretend it’s notherlooking back. She hears laughter between two of the women sitting somewhere behind her, and it makes her anxious. Even though she has no reason to believe they are laughing at her, she wouldn’t blame them if they were.

Huffing out a sigh, she closes her eyes and rakes her fingers through her maple hair—curled to perfection. The locks fall down her back, the soft strands brushing against her exposed skin. A chill runs down her spine at the remembrance of her mostly naked state in a room with nearly a dozen other thinly clad women. She swallows hard and darts her tongue out, wetting her maroon painted lips.

“First night’s always the hardest.”

Jessica’s head jerks in the direction of the woman who just spoke. Beside her, seated on the cushioned stool with her attention focused on her own face, is a blonde bombshell applying a generous amount of mascara. She doesn’t even bother to look in Jessica’s direction as she goes on to say, “Just relax. Don’t overthink it. You do, and you’ll be like sandpaper. We aren’t paid to be like sandpaper.”

At a complete loss for words, Jessica’s lips part but nothing comes out. She simply stares at the woman. She’s wearing a bright red, silk cover-up, her thick, wavy locks dusting her shoulders. She’s the image of a pin-up girl—curvy, voluptuous, confident. When she’s finished with her lashes, she gives Jessica a sidelong glance. Her blue eyes are dark—made even darker by the heavy makeup that surrounds them; and in spite of the serious expression on her face, there seems to be a glimmer of softness in her gaze.

Tossing her tube of mascara aside, she leans across the space separating them and extends her hand. “Dahlia.”

“Jessica,” she replies timidly, accepting Dahlia’s gesture.

A smirk curls the corner of her mouth as she lets Jessica go. “No way Beatrice is letting you keep that name. Am I right?”

“Yeah,” says Jessica, managing a half-hearted smile.

“Most of us don’t use our real names anyway.”

Before she has a chance to ask whether Dahlia is her real name or herstagename, she feels a warm, familiar hand on her shoulder. Jessica looks up and sees Stefano. Instantly, she crosses her legs and folds her arms over her chest. She doesn’t need a mirror to know her cheeks are burning in embarrassment, and she’s surprised by her sudden urge to cry. Frantically glancing into her lap and at her feet, she wonders where she put her robe.

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