She's Got Some Nerve（Lila's POV）

A low ripple of murmurs spread through the room, hushed but unmistakable. Someone nearby breathed the words just loud enough to reach me: She's got some nerve.

God knows I wanted to say the same thing to myself. The realization hit me a beat too late — he could turn on me any second, summon security, and have me thrown out before I could blink.

I looked away fast and lifted my glass, drinking too quickly, nearly choking. I coughed twice.

Adrian turned to a nearby server. "Get her some water."

The server disappeared without a word.

I hadn't expected him to play along — and play along so convincingly. Maybe his real dream had always been acting, and tonight had given him the perfect opportunity to indulge it.

I swallowed and shifted my gaze across the table. Ethan's face had gone dark, the kind of dark that had no good ending. His date was pulling at his arm, saying something he clearly wasn't hearing. His eyes were locked on me, fixed and unblinking, like he was trying to bore two holes straight through me.

I smiled at him.

He kept frowning, wearing the expression of a child whose favorite toy had just been taken away. I genuinely didn't understand why he was so upset. He'd moved on within days of ending things between us — so why was it so difficult to accept that I'd done the same? Or maybe what he couldn't stomach was the idea that someone he'd always looked up to, someone he practically idolized, had chosen to be with a girl he considered beneath consideration.

The dinner finally ended.

As the guests rose to say their goodbyes, I stood alongside Adrian. I pretended to smooth my skirt and pitched my voice low, asking if he could carry my bag.

Adrian, mid-farewell with someone else, raised an eyebrow and reached over, lifting the tote by its strap with the casual ease of someone who'd done it a thousand times before.

I looked down at his hand — the one wearing a watch that cost more than most people's cars — now holding a tote bag I'd paid fifty-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents for. The image was so absurd I almost laughed.

We walked toward the elevators together, our host accompanying us. I could feel two sets of eyes tracking me from behind. I didn't need to turn around to know it was Ethan and his date. The whispers that had followed me all evening receded like a tide as we moved away from the crowd. Ethan lingered near the back, his expression ashen.

The elevator doors closed.

The moment the metal panels met and cut off every line of sight, I stopped pretending. I ignored the presence of Adrian's assistant and bodyguard standing behind us and launched immediately into an apology.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Lowell — I wasn't trying to impersonate your girlfriend, I swear. I was in an impossible situation tonight. The people I was talking to, I know them well enough that they'd be shocked but they wouldn't spread it around. I never imagined you'd actually be in the room. When they turned and looked at you, the whole hall caught on, and I — I'm genuinely sorry for what that does to your reputation. If you want to make demands, I'll do whatever I can to make it right."

I don't think I've ever spoken that fast in my entire life. I was terrified that if I slowed down, the elevator would open and what walked out would be a body.

Adrian was the kind of person who was born at the top and had never left it. He didn't need to lift a finger. All it would take was the faintest signal of his displeasure, and a dozen people would materialize to deal with me — quietly, efficiently, permanently. So I needed his forgiveness. Or at minimum, I needed him not to despise me. The alternative was something I couldn't afford.

Adrian's eyes stayed on his phone as he listened, unhurried. Then he glanced up at me. "What's your name?"

Of all the embarrassing things. We'd spent an entire evening pretending to be a couple, and he didn't even know my name.

I smiled awkwardly and told him, silently praying he wasn't filing it away for future use against me.

"Tonight," he said, his voice carrying cleanly through the quiet elevator, "we'll discuss it later."

Later. Did that mean he wasn't done with me? I scrambled internally — what could I possibly say or do that would come across as genuinely remorseful rather than just desperate?

"Wilson." He glanced at his watch, then slid his eyes toward me. "Send her the address and find a time I'm free." A brief pause. "You're still here. Planning to come home with me?"

"No, no, no —" I was already shaking my head and waving both hands as I stepped out of the elevator ahead of him, moving like I was fleeing a fire.

That was terrifying. I have never in my life been that afraid of another person — not even two years ago when someone pressed a gun to my head during a robbery. It wasn't anything he'd said or done, exactly. It was the weight of him, the way everyone in that room had been quietly calibrating their behavior around his mood. When you grow up with people reading your face just to know how to survive the next five minutes, I suppose you end up with eyes like that — eyes that don't need to say anything to make someone afraid.

I didn't feel like I could breathe again until I'd made it outside and the night air hit my face. I turned around to find Wilson behind me, slightly out of breath, his earlier composure replaced with something that looked almost amused.

"You move fast, ma'am," he said between breaths.

Right — I'd meant to exchange contact information with him in the elevator. I'd been too panicked and completely forgotten.

We swapped numbers, and he set the appointment for three days out: dinner at The Carlyle Restaurant. Adrian had an opening, he said.

The Carlyle. Of all the places. I'd sat in that restaurant two weeks ago and had one of the worst evenings of my life.

Wilson, to his credit, caught my expression immediately. "Is that evening inconvenient for you, ma'am? Do you have a prior engagement?"

"No," I said. "It's fine." I just happened to dislike the place, given that it was where my ex-boyfriend had broken up with me two weeks prior. But I was the one who owed an apology here. I had no standing to request a different venue.

"I should mention," I said, "that restaurant is notoriously hard to get into on short notice. Will there actually be a table available?"

Wilson smiled and gave a small, polished bow. "There's a private room held for Mr. Lowell on a standing basis. Please don't worry about that. I'll take my leave now."

I nodded and thanked him. The moment I turned away, the smile dropped off my face entirely.

Insufferable. Rich people were absolutely insufferable. I wanted to scream.

I'd barely taken a step when Wilson spoke again from behind me.

"Ma'am — there's something I think you should know."

I stopped.

"Tonight's dinner. Mr. Lowell hadn't originally planned to attend."

I turned that over slowly.

"He reviewed the guest list about an hour before departure," Wilson said, "and changed his mind."

Then he left, and I was standing alone outside the hotel entrance.

The guest list.

That meant he'd seen my name on it. Or — had he seen Samantha's name? Or had it been Ethan's?

But Ethan had told me once that despite being only three years apart in age, Adrian had always felt like a different species — too exceptional, too exacting, never quite like someone you could stand next to as an equal. Ethan was a little afraid of him, if he was being honest. The two of them were hardly close. Cordial at best.

So why would Adrian rearrange his evening for Ethan's sake?

Unless Ethan wasn't who he'd come to see.

I stood in the night wind, the restaurant address still glowing on my phone screen.

Three days. The Carlyle.

My phone buzzed. Samantha's name appeared on the screen.

I stared at it without answering. She'd clearly already heard what happened at the party. I let it ring for a moment before picking up, hoping she might be able to give me something — some piece of this that I was still missing.

Because I couldn't shake the feeling that tonight had been anything but simple.