La Maison Dorée looks like the kind of place where forks have trust funds and napkins attend finishing school.
I click through the entrance in heels that cost more than my monthly grocery budget—a financial decision I'm regretting with every step that brings me closer to whatever fresh hell awaits inside.
My crimson dress hugs curves I usually hide beneath cardigans, and my platinum wig is secured with enough bobby pins to set off a metal detector. The contacts itch slightly. My smile is painted on with the same determination that got me through Milo's colicky phase.
Viola is here.
Rory is somewhere in the back of my skull, hyperventilating into a paper bag.
The maître d' approaches with the practiced grace of someone who's been judging poor people since birth. "Mademoiselle Viola? Your party is waiting. Right this way."
My party. Singular. One mysterious benefactor. One awkward dinner. Two hours of pretending to be someone fabulous.
I can do this. Probably.
He leads me through the restaurant, past tables of elegant diners who probably spend more on appetizers than I spend on rent. The private booth comes into view—corner location, dimly lit, intimate.
I stop dead.
Three men are already seated, and the tension crackling between them could power a small city.
Julian sits with his arms crossed, jaw tight enough to crack walnuts.
Nathan is there too, but something's different. He's leaning back, almost casual, though his eyes track my approach with careful hunger.
And Grayson Smith—the actual CEO of my company—lounges against the leather with silver-fox calm, his gray eyes watching me like I'm prey in designer clothing.
My brain short-circuits. Error 404: sanity not found.
They're arguing before I even reach the table, voices low but heated.
"She's my bid," Julian says, his tone sharp.
"I outbid you both." Nathan's voice is measured, controlled. "Check the records."
Grayson's smile is thin as a blade. "Actually, gentlemen, the charity informed me this morning—we tied. They split the date three ways."
Three. Not one. Three men who know Rory Kane in fluorescent office lighting, now competing for Viola in candlelight.
What the hell have I done?
Rory screams internally. Viola squares her shoulders, lifts her chin, and slides into the booth like she was born wearing designer heels and drinking champagne for breakfast.
"Evening, boys." My voice comes out as a purr, smooth and confident. "Started without me, I see. Should I be flattered or concerned?"
Grayson signals for the sommelier. "Champagne, I think. This seems like an occasion worth celebrating."
"Three men, one woman," Julian says dryly. "The charity certainly knows how to maximize awkwardness."
Nathan doesn't laugh. He's watching me with an intensity that's been deliberately banked, like a fire someone's trying to contain. "You look stunning tonight."
"She knows," Julian cuts in. "Fishing for compliments is beneath someone of her caliber."
I stifle a laugh at the irony.
The champagne arrives, golden bubbles catching candlelight. I take a slow sip, buying time.
"So." I set down my glass. "What brings three successful men to bid on dinner with a complete stranger?"
"Competition," Julian says flatly. "I saw the bids climbing and refused to lose."
"Curiosity." Grayson swirls his champagne. "There's something about you, Viola, that doesn't quite add up. I find that intriguing."
Nathan's turn. He pauses, and I brace for the possessive intensity I saw at the event. Instead, his voice is almost soft. "I wanted to apologize. For the other night. My behavior was inexcusable."
The admission hangs in the air. Julian's eyebrow arches. Grayson's gaze sharpens with interest.
"Apology accepted," I say carefully. "Consider it forgotten."
But I don't forget. I can't. This restrained Nathan is somehow more unsettling than the drunk one who cornered me in a bathroom.
The waiter arrives with menus, and the competition begins in earnest.
"The foie gras here is exceptional," Grayson offers, leaning toward me. "I could order for the table, if you'd like."
"She's perfectly capable of ordering for herself," Julian says. "Unless you think women need assistance reading menus?"
"I think," I interrupt smoothly, "I'll have the scallops. And gentlemen? I'm quite capable of handling my own decisions."
Grayson's smile widens with approval. Nathan says nothing, but his eyes never leave my face.
"So, Viola." Julian sets down his menu. "What do you do when you're not modeling for beauty campaigns?"
"I'm between projects. Very mysterious, terribly busy."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
Grayson chuckles. "I told you she was interesting."
"Interesting is one word for evasive." But Julian's lips twitch with something like amusement.
The appetizers arrive. Conversation flows like champagne—bubbly, intoxicating, dangerous.
"You know," Grayson says, cutting into his foie gras, "I find it fascinating that no one in the industry seems to know anything about you before six months ago."
"Perhaps I value my privacy."
"Or perhaps," Julian adds, "you're not who you claim to be."
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. "And who do you think I am?"
"Someone interesting." His hazel eyes hold mine. "Someone with secrets."
Nathan shifts in his seat. "Does it matter who she was before? She's here now."
I shoot him a surprised glance. He's defending me. Quietly, almost unconsciously. The fire is still there behind his eyes, but he's keeping it leashed.
"How philosophical," Grayson murmurs. "And here I thought you were just another pretty face in sales, Nathan."
"Don't underestimate the sales department, Mr. Smith."
The tension thickens. I sip my champagne, watching three alpha males circle each other while ostensibly competing for me.
"Gentlemen," I purr, "if you're going to have a territorial dispute, at least make it entertaining."
Julian snorts. Grayson's smile turns genuine. Nathan's restraint cracks just enough to show real amusement.
"She has a point," Julian concedes. "We're being absurd."
"Speak for yourself," Grayson replies. "I'm being strategic."
The main course arrives, and conversation shifts.
"You remind me of someone," Julian says suddenly, setting down his fork. "I can't place it, but there's something familiar about you."
My heart stops. "I have one of those faces."
"No." His hazel eyes study me. "You have a specific face. Something about how you tilt your head when you're thinking."
"Perhaps we've crossed paths before," Grayson suggests. "The corporate world is smaller than people think."
"Perhaps." My smile stays fixed while my pulse races.
Dessert arrives. The dance continues—Julian with sharp observations, Grayson with strategic charm, Nathan with his unsettling new restraint.
"When can I see you again?" Nathan asks as coffee is poured. "Properly, this time. I'd like to make up for my earlier behavior."
"I believe we all deserve equal opportunity," Grayson interjects smoothly. "Fair is fair."
Julian says nothing, but his eyes lock onto mine with an expression I can't decode. Something flickering beneath the professional exterior—interest? Suspicion? Both?
I smile, mysterious and untouchable. "Gentlemen, I appreciate the enthusiasm. But a woman has to maintain some mystery."
Three sets of eyes watch me gather my clutch, stand gracefully, extend my hand for each of them to kiss.
Nathan's lips linger a second too long.
Julian's grip is firm, questioning.
Grayson's smile promises this is only the beginning. “My assistant will reach out to you with the details.”
I walk out of La Maison Dorée with my head high and my heart hammering against my ribs.
Three men. Three complications. One lie that's growing too big to control.
What the hell have I done?