Chapter 2 - The Black Town Car
Outside the Beverly Hills hotel, rain had just begun touching the warm pavement, filling the night air with the smell of wet asphalt and ozone.
I stood beneath the grand green awning in my torn black dress, holding one broken high-heeled sandal in my hand. My phone was shaking violently in the other as I tried to open a ride-sharing app, but the screen kept blurring through my unshed tears.
I had no car. Brad had driven us here in his Mercedes.
The small design studio downtown where I crafted my custom dresses was partially subsidized by a lease guarantor agreement Brad's father had set up to keep my business "reputable."
The lease on my apartment in West Hollywood had Brad’s name as a primary guarantor because my independent freelance income hadn't satisfied the corporate management company's strict financial requirements.
Half my professional contacts—the wealthy women who commissioned five-thousand-dollar evening gowns—had entered my life through people who sat on the boards of the Miller family's charitable foundations.
For three long years, I had told myself none of that mattered. I had convinced myself that I worked hard enough, designed skillfully enough, and survived enough sixteen-hour days to deserve my place in the industry.
Now, standing in the rain with blood drying on my cheek, I wondered how much of my life would disappear before sunrise if Bradley Miller decided I was no longer worth protecting.
A sleek, midnight-black town car pulled slowly up to the curb, its tires rolling smoothly over the wet concrete.
The dark-tinted rear window lowered without a sound.
Alexander Hawthorne looked out at me.
I knew Alex the way everyone in Los Angeles knew powerful people they had never actually spoken to in person. He was thirty-six, six feet two inches of sharp angles and tailored darkness. He owned vast stakes in international shipping logistics, luxury hotel chains, media conglomerates, and enough prime real estate along the West Coast that business articles about him always used words like portfolio and sovereign influence instead of buildings.
Brad had once called him a cold, ruthless sociopath during a dinner party after Hawthorne Logistics outbid the Miller Group on a fifty-million-dollar port terminal in San Pedro.
Remembering Brad's bitter tone, it occurred to me that I might actually like Alexander Hawthorne.
Alex’s cool gray gaze traveled slowly from the jagged scratch beneath my left eye, down my torn dress shoulder, and settled finally on my bare, bleeding ring finger.
“I can offer you a ride, Miss Mercer,” his voice was a low, smooth baritone that cut through the sound of the rain.
I held my broken shoe tighter. “Were you waiting for me, Mr. Hawthorne?”
“Yes.”
The absolute honesty of his answer startled me. He didn't offer a polite excuse. He didn't pretend he was just passing through the valet line.
“Why?” I asked, stepping closer to the car door.
“Because you threw a two-hundred-thousand-dollar diamond at Bradley Miller’s face,” Alex said, his lips twitching into the faintest ghost of a smile. “And I prefer not to let rare talent freeze on the sidewalk.”
He pushed the door open from the inside.
I looked back once at the grand glass entrance of the Beverly Hills hotel. Through the brightly lit doors, I could see Brad rushing out onto the portico, looking frantically around the driveway, his phone pressed to his ear.
I didn't hesitate. I stepped into the warm, leather-scented interior of Alexander Hawthorne’s car and pulled the door shut behind me.
The heavy door closed with a solid, satisfying thud, sealing out the noise of the hotel, the rain, and Bradley Miller’s life.
Alex didn't ask for my address right away. He reached into a small side compartment, pulled out a clean silk handkerchief and a small, sealed glass bottle of mineral water, and handed them to me without a word.
“Thank you,” I murmured, pressing the cool silk against the sting on my cheek.
“Where would you like to go, Kate?” he asked, leaning back against his leather seat.
“I don't know,” I said, looking out the window as the car accelerated smoothly onto Wilshire Boulevard. “My apartment is in Brad’s name. My studio is tied to his family’s legal team. By tomorrow morning, his father will probably have my locks changed and my business accounts frozen.”
“They will certainly try,” Alex observed calmly. “Harrison Miller is a small-minded man who uses contracts as weapons when his ego is damaged.”
I turned my head to look at him. In the passing streetlights, his profile looked like it had been carved out of dark granite. High cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and eyes that seemed to calculate every variable in the universe without effort.
“Why are you helping me, Mr. Hawthorne?” I asked directly. “You don't know me. We’ve never spoken before tonight.”
Alex turned his gray eyes toward me.
“I have watched your work for two years, Kate,” he said softly. “You designed the gown Victoria Sterling wore to the Metropolitan Opera Gala last fall. The industry assumed it was a French house, but I recognize genuine craftsmanship when I see it. You are a brilliant artist who has allowed herself to be buried beneath the mediocrity of a mediocre family.”
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Bradley Miller didn't keep you because he loved you,” Alex added, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. “He kept you because you made him look respectable to people who mattered. And now that you’ve broken his illusion, he will try to destroy you so no one else can see what you are capable of building without him.”
My breath caught in my throat. Every word he spoke hit the exact center of my deepest, unspoken fears.
“So what do you propose?” I asked, my voice holding firm.
Alex reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a sleek, black keycard with no markings.
“I own the penthouse suite at the Wilshire Grand,” he said, placing the card on the small table between us. “It is completely secure, private, and out of the reach of the Miller family’s lawyers. You will stay there tonight. Tomorrow morning, my personal legal team will review your studio lease and your business contracts.”
I stared at the black card. “And what do you want in return?”
May you like
Alex’s lips twitched into a real, genuine smile this time.
“I want to hire you to design the complete wardrobe for the upcoming Hawthorne Foundation Gala next month,” he said quietly. “And I want you to make sure Bradley Miller and Vanessa Carter spend the entire evening realizing what they threw away.”
