Chapter 1The Wrong Woman to Hustle

My tab for the evening: two simple, honest dishes, barely scraping seventy dollars.

The table next to me, however, was a different story. Four men in power suits, drowning in high-dollar Scotch and enough premium Napa Cabernet to flood a small cellar. Boston lobster shells piled up like tiny monuments to excess.

When the waiter slid the check onto my table, I stared at the total: $1,260.50.

I froze. “I only ordered two things,” I said.

The waiter, with a practiced, neutral expression, nodded toward the now-empty round table. “Ma’am, your party left a moment ago. They instructed us to put the check on your table.”

My friends? I had never seen them before in my life.

I demanded the security footage. The manager, a thick-set man in a black suit, sneered when I pointed out the man in the video simply pointing at me, then swaggering out. “Don’t try to pull a fast one,” he growled. “You came in together.”

That was the moment I pulled out my phone and dialed the number.

The manager’s cold smirk instantly melted away.

* * *

The screen on my phone glowed, showing 7:00 PM.

Noah’s text popped up: Traffic’s a nightmare, babe. Maybe thirty minutes late. Go ahead and grab a table.

I quickly texted back a ‘thumbs up’ emoji and tucked the phone away.

Tonight was our three-year wedding anniversary. A month ago, Noah had booked this place, Aura on the Ascent. He’d promised a refined atmosphere and exquisite food—a proper celebration.

I sat at the window-side table for two, the clean, cream linen crisp beneath my elbows. A waiter poured me some chilled lemon water. I opened the menu. The prices were predictably steep. I bypassed the showy entrees and ordered a couple of our favorites—a delicate Pan-Seared Halibut and a plate of buttery, seasonal Asparagus with Hollandaise. Just the two dishes, well under a hundred dollars. I didn’t want to be extravagant, but I wanted the night to be perfect.

I looked out the window. The city lights were beginning their nightly display, the traffic below looking like streaks of colored ribbon.

“Waiter! Another bottle of the Macallan!”

A loud, booming voice shattered the restaurant’s cultivated quiet.

I flinched, glancing at the round table next to mine. Four men, all about forty, dressed in glossy, expensive suits. Their hair was slicked back, and their gold watches flashed under the ambient light. Their table was a disaster of high-end consumption.

The man in charge, addressed as “Mitch” by the others, was scarlet-faced and waving his phone, bragging loudly. “I told the CEO, ‘Under five hundred million, we don’t even talk.’ The man poured me another drink right there!”

His companions immediately fell all over themselves with sycophantic praise.

“Legend, Mitch!”

“We’re just happy to drink the runoff, boss.”

I turned back to the window. I had no energy to waste on people who treated every public space like their own private stage.

My two dishes arrived quickly. The halibut was perfectly browned; the asparagus was a tender, vibrant green. I left them untouched, waiting for Noah.

The clamor next door was reaching a crescendo.

Mitch seemed to notice me. He raised his wine glass and his eyes drifted over, a vague, knowing smirk on his lips. He spoke to the man beside him in a voice calibrated just loud enough for me to hear. “These young girls, coming to a place like this, ordering two sides just to take a picture for Instagram. All for show.”

I didn’t even blink. Dealing with that kind of insecurity would only pull me down to their level.

They drained another round, then finally seemed ready to disperse. Mitch staggered to his feet and wobbled toward the host stand. The remaining three men slapped each other on the back, and as they passed my table, one of them made a point of bumping my chair.

I held my tongue.

I saw Mitch interact with the server near the front. He said something, then explicitly pointed in my direction. The server nodded. Mitch and his buddies then swaggered straight out the main doors.