Elaine steered Courtney away from the grand entrance of the hotel, her grip on her friend's arm unrelenting. The morning bustle of Manhattan was a jarring contrast to the silent, suffocating panic in her own head. Taxis honked, sirens wailed in the distance, and the scent of roasted nuts from a street vendor filled the air.

She spotted a small, discreet coffee shop tucked into a side street and practically dragged Courtney inside.

"The corner booth. Now," she commanded, her voice low and urgent.

She pushed Courtney into the plush seat and slid in opposite her, making sure her own back was to the window. A paranoid part of her brain imagined Alaric Caldwell staring down from his penthouse suite, watching her.

A waiter appeared. "Two black coffees," Elaine snapped, not even looking at the menu. She needed the bitterness, the scalding heat, something to shock her system back into some semblance of control.

Courtney waited until the waiter had gone, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression a mixture of concern and impatience. "Okay, we're out of the hotel. We're hidden away. Now talk. You're acting like you just robbed a bank, not had a one-night stand."

Elaine didn't answer. She picked up the glass of ice water on the table, her fingers tracing the condensation on the outside. The cold seeped into her skin.

Her mind, unbidden, flashed back six months.

A private club in SoHo. The air thick with the scent of leather and old money. She had been on her way to the restroom, her stomach churning with a sick feeling she couldn't shake. Her fiancé, Brenton Wood, had been acting distant all night — not cold exactly, but elsewhere, his eyes sliding off her face every time she tried to meet them, his hand finding excuses not to hold hers.

She'd pushed open the heavy oak door to a secluded side lounge, intending to take a shortcut back to their table.

And there he was. Brenton.

He wasn't even trying to hide. His jacket was still perfectly pressed. His champagne glass sat untouched on the side table beside him, catching the low amber light. And his hands — the hands that had slid an engagement ring onto her finger eight months ago, the hands she had held at his father's funeral — were buried deep in the perfectly styled hair of Alaric's fiancée, Genevieve Sinclair, pulling her closer with a possessiveness he had never once shown Elaine. Genevieve's silk skirt was hiked to her thigh. Brenton's mouth moved against her jaw, her throat, with a slow, deliberate hunger.

Elaine had stood in the doorway for three full seconds before either of them noticed her. This was not a first time. The ease of them — the way Genevieve's fingers were already familiar with the buttons of his shirt, the way Brenton's hand knew exactly where to rest on her hip — spoke of weeks, maybe months, of practice.

At that exact moment, the door from the opposite side of the lounge swung open.

Alaric had stood there. For a fraction of a second, his expression was unguarded — and what Elaine saw in it was not shock, but something worse: recognition. Over Brenton's shoulder, Elaine could see Genevieve — polished, beautiful Genevieve, who had smiled at Elaine at every charity gala and called her darling and asked after her mother — hastily stepping back from Brenton, her lipstick smeared, her silk blouse hanging open at the collar, three buttons undone in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

The four of them had frozen.

It was Genevieve who moved first. She smoothed her blouse with both hands, a small, practiced gesture, and had the audacity to look mildly inconvenienced rather than ashamed. Brenton straightened up and cleared his throat. He actually cleared his throat — as if he'd been caught checking his phone at the dinner table.

"Elaine—" he started.

She had turned and walked out before he could finish the sentence.

But Alaric... Alaric hadn't hesitated. She had heard him behind her in the corridor — not following her, but already on his phone, his voice low and absolutely controlled, the voice of a man who had rehearsed for catastrophe. Within minutes, security had discreetly appeared, the scene had been locked down, and the story had been completely buried.

He had erased the problem as if it never existed.

That was the man she had just slept with. A man who dealt with messes by annihilating them.

A violent shudder ran through her. She shook her head, trying to banish the memory.

"Elaine?" Courtney's voice was softer now.

Elaine looked up, her eyes wide with a fear her friend couldn't possibly understand. "I need to get rid of him," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Courtney blinked. "Get rid of him? Honey, five minutes ago you were acting like he branded you for life. I thought he was good?"

"He's not good," Elaine said, her voice gaining a sharp, desperate edge. "He's... complicated. He's a problem. A big one. If anyone finds out, my life is over."

Courtney leaned forward, her playful demeanor gone, replaced by a shrewd seriousness. "Okay. Big problem. I get it. So, what's the plan? Ghost him?"

"It's not that simple. He knows... things."

The waiter returned with their coffees. Elaine grabbed the cup, the heat searing her palms. She took a sip, burning her tongue. The sharp pain was grounding.

"Then you buy his silence," Courtney said, her tone matter-of-fact.

Elaine stared at her. "What?"

"It's the cleanest way," Courtney explained, as if discussing a business transaction. "You pay him off. A lump sum, in cash. Get him to sign something. It's... what people in our world do. With... problems."

A flicker of hesitation crossed her face, and she glanced out the window, her voice losing some of its confidence. "I mean, I've seen my dad handle things this way. With interns, small stuff."

The idea was crude, transactional, and utterly humiliating. It was also, Elaine realized with a sinking heart, perfect. It was a language Alaric would understand. It reduced their encounter to what she desperately wanted it to be: a mistake. A transaction.

"How much?" Courtney asked, already in problem-solving mode. "Five thousand? Ten? I can lend you whatever you need. Just consider it a best-friend tax."

Elaine hesitated, her pride warring with her panic. Taking Courtney's money felt wrong—especially since the man she was paying off was Courtney's own uncle. The web of lies was already too tangled. But the desperate need to erase last night immediately overpowered her reservations. She had to fix this now, before he could ruin her.

"Five thousand," Elaine said, her voice tight. "Do you actually have that in cash on you?"

"I was supposed to pay the event planner for my mother's charity gala today," Courtney said casually, reaching into her designer tote. She pulled out a sleek bank envelope and slid it across the table. "Take it. Pay me back whenever."

Elaine grabbed the envelope, her fingers clutching the thick stack of bills as if it were a lifeline. "Thank you. I just... I need a way to get it to him without seeing him again."

"Anonymous courier," Courtney said instantly, the flicker of hesitation vanishing as practicality took over. "Same-day delivery. They pick up a package, drop it off. No names, no contact. Simple."

A sliver of hope, fragile but real, flickered in Elaine's chest. She could fix this. She could erase him, just like he had erased their fiancés' affair six months ago.

She started calculating in her head. How much was in her personal account? Could she sell a piece of jewelry without her father noticing?

"Elaine, are you okay?" Courtney asked, watching her. "You look like you're about to be sick again." She sighed, a wistful note in her voice. "He must have been incredible, though. To be worth this much trouble."

"Don't," Elaine said, cutting her off. She grabbed her purse and stood up. The movement pulled at muscles that had no business being sore at nine in the morning, and she felt it — a deep, aching protest that shot up from her bare, blistered soles all the way to her hip. The lobby marble had been punishing enough. The cracked pavement outside had been worse. She had felt every grain of grit under her feet on the walk from the hotel door to this booth, and she had not said a single word about it.

Courtney's eyes narrowed. "You're limping."

"I'm fine," Elaine said, too quickly.

"You are literally listing to one side—"

"I said I'm fine, Courtney." She walked to the counter, pulling out her card to pay before Courtney could.

As she pushed open the glass door and stepped back out into the chilly morning air, the cold concrete found every raw patch on the bottoms of her feet at once. She took a sharp breath and kept walking. The plan was set. Pay him off. Cut him out. Move on.

She waved a quick goodbye to Courtney and hurried to the curb, her eyes scanning the street for a taxi. She had to get home and organize the courier immediately. And above all, she had to figure out how to quietly pull five thousand dollars from her trust fund so she could pay Courtney back as soon as possible, before her best friend got dragged any deeper into this nightmare.