MALCOLM

I used to believe in destiny. That the world was designed, that things happened for a reason.

That was before life ripped me up and spit me out. Before, my dreams bled all over a cold stage floor.

Before I found out that being alive is not about destiny, it's about fighting for every breath of your existence.

Tonight, I'm just fighting to get through another shift.

Now I was in the middle of Bliss of Seduction with a fresh stain down my front, George glaring at me as if I personally offended his family.

"Iris!" George bellowed behind the bar, waving an empty tray wildly. "Table five is waiting! What are you dawdling for?"

I breathed hard, forcing a strained smile. "On it!"

He shook his head and grumbled under his breath. I didn't have to hear the words to know that they were not pleasant.

George didn't even put up with me. Never wanted me in the first place. He acted like I stole his job, like I was the problem, when really he just didn't like having a waitress that he couldn't intimidate.

But I had more pressing issues than his bruised ego.

Balancing the tray on my hip, I threaded between tables, not caring about the way my shoes stuck to the floor thanks to spilled drinks and bad judgment.

I set a cocktail in front of a redhead sprawled out over the booth like she was a supermodel posing for a magazine cover. She rolled her eyes up at me, unfazed. "Took you long enough."

I swallowed my sigh. "Sorry for the delay."

Polite. Professional. Get in, get out, give nobody a reason to recall you. That was the policy.

But then I turned and felt it. A change. As if the air itself had tightened.

The music never stopped, but for an instant, it might as well have. And when I looked up, I knew why.

Malcolm Slade had arrived. He didn't arrive. He didn't have to. He moved as if the room belonged to him-because it did.

Every table, every hushed whisper, every patron losing themselves in pricey liquor, it all took place under his shadow.

He loomed, a physical weight crushing down upon the space, and yet it wasn't his power that caught my breath. It was him.

Black dress shirt. Sleeves pushed up to his forearms. Silver watch sparkling under the soft club lights. Wide shoulders cutting through the mass of people like a blade.

And those eyes. Cold, cutting, glacial blue, seizing on mine. I froze.

It was more than a glance. More than the suggestive once-over men give when they're considering you pretty.

This was different. This was the kind of gaze that tore things asunder.

That stripped you to bone and marrow and had you questioning whether you ever breathed before it found you.

The second lingered. Hung. As if time itself hung on the edge of a knife. Then, as suddenly as it had come, he walked away.

And I could catch my breath again. A hand wrapped around my arm, and I nearly jumped out of it.

"Jesus, Lura!" I spat, clutching at my heart. My friend grinned up at me, green eyes dancing with laughter. "That was a moment."

"No, it wasn't."

"Oh, honey." She struck a pose dramatically, patting my shoulder. "You were checking out the boss. And he was most definitely checking back."

I winced, rubbing my temples. "Not here, Lura."

"What? It's not illegal to look." She moved in closer, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper.

"Except, technically, it is. Fewer men have been able to capture Malcolm Slade's eye and come out alive to tell the tale-"

"I get that, all right?" I broke in, trying to exhale. "It was nothing. Just... eye contact."

Lura raised her brows. "The kind of eye contact that makes you question all of your life choices?"

I gave her a look. "No. And even if it was, I'd rather have my head where it is."

She smiled but let it drop, nudging me toward the bar. "Just be careful, Iris. Some looks don't let go so easily."

I rolled my eyes, but she had planted something in my head.

For as much as it was, like I already did.

And for as much as I kept telling myself Malcolm Slade was a human death warrant, some small inner voice of reason still refused to hear.

Not good. Especially after the fact when I nearly plowed straight into Pamela.

I breathed fast, tight-fisted on my tray. "Uh-hi," I stammered out too quickly. Pamela didn't blink.

She was my boss. Sure. But beyond that, cold. Calculated. Merciless. She could end a career with one glance.

And she was glaring at me now. My stomach twisted. Had George complained? Was I getting fired?

She folded her arms, eyes as sharp as a knife. "Your shirt. It's stained."

I blinked. ".Oh."

Not what I had been preparing myself for. She sighed, unimpressed.

"Fix it. This is a high-end restaurant. Guests don't pay for luxury to see waitresses splattered with spills."

Then, without a word, she turned and went away. I exhaled the air out of me as soon as she was gone. That might have been worse.

But then a worse thought came to me. What if Malcolm had seen?

I shook the thought away. No way. Malcolm Slade did not see people, let alone a waitress. But still, I went directly to the changing room.

I pushed through a whirlpool of dancers juggling sequins and tugging fishnets. There was perfume and powder in the air.

I reached my locker. Grasped the handle. Tugged. Locked. My heart locked up.

No, no, no. My hands scrounged in my pockets. Nothing. My keys. Then it hit me-Lura.

I had left them with her previously. And naturally she had locked my locker like the responsible one that she was.

Panic crawled up my throat. I had to get back in a hurry. I looked around the room, and my gaze landed on Lura's open locker.

Spare shirts. I grabbed one, jammed it over my head, and immediately regretted it. Too tight.

Lura was small, and I-wasn't. The buttons strained across my chest, fabric binding against my ribs. One misstep, and I'd be mooning the whole club.

"This is a disaster," I cursed, tugging on the collar.

I had no choice. My shift was almost up. I just had to survive ten more minutes without catastrophe.

I dashed out, right into Lura.

"There you are! Pamela's waiting for you."

I bristled. "Again? Why?"

Lura shrugged, passing me my key. "Who knows? She always glares. But she said to bring you, so..."

Anxiety writhed in my gut. I propelled my feet forward. Step by step. Past the bar. Beyond the VIP lounge.

Then Pamela turned. And instead of sweeping me to the floor, she walked towards his office.

My heart froze. I almost staggered, but Pamela steadied me. She glared at me, unfazed.

"Seriously?"

I swallowed hard. She rapped twice. A deep voice from within replied.

"Come in."

Pamela entered. Then turned around, staring into my eyes.

"Let's go."

I hesitated-just for a moment. Then, realizing I had no choice, I walked ahead. Straight into the lion's den.