My Best Friend Used a Billionaire to Ruin Me

The club was called Vault. It sat under an old bank on Lafayette Street. Red lights. Bass so loud I felt it in my teeth.

Drake had a booth in the back. He liked it there. He could see everyone, and everyone could see him.

"Get me another," he said. He pushed his empty glass toward me. Not toward the waitress. Toward me.

Drink three. I counted.

"Of course," I said.

The bar was three people deep. I squeezed in at the end and waited. A man slid in beside me. Thirties. Loose tie. Cologne like a car air freshener.

"You're too pretty to be ordering alone," he said.

"I'm not alone." I kept my eyes on the bartender.

"Could've fooled me." He leaned closer. "Let me buy that."

"No, thank you."

"Come on. One drink."

"I said no."

His smile went flat. "Wow. Okay. You think you're better than me?"

His hand landed on the bar beside mine. Then it closed on my wrist.

Rosa's voice was in my head. *Thumb. Turn. Step out.* I could do it. Two seconds, and he'd be holding air.

But a woman who could do that didn't need Drake.

So I didn't turn. I stepped back instead, right into the hard wall of Drake's chest. I knew he'd been watching. He always watched.

I gripped his forearm with both hands. I made my voice small.

"I don't know what to do."

He moved me behind him like a piece of furniture. Then he stepped forward.

"Take your hand off what's mine," he said. He didn't say it loud. He said it quiet. It was the same quiet that made waiters freeze.

The man laughed once. It came out nervous. "Hey, man, I was just talking—"

"You were touching." Drake leaned in close to his ear. I couldn't hear the rest. I only saw the man's face go gray.

Two bouncers appeared. Drake didn't even look at them. He just tilted his head. They walked the man out by his elbows. His drink stayed on the bar, and the ice melted.

Drake turned around. His face changed. It went warm and pleased, like a man who just won a prize at the fair.

He lifted my chin with one finger.

"Good girl. You came to me."

I lowered my eyes. "I always will."

He kissed my forehead. Hard. Then he ordered his own scotch and went back to the booth like nothing had happened.

I stayed until one. I laughed when he laughed. At the curb, he put me in a cab and paid the driver. "Text me when you're inside."

The door shut. The cab pulled away.

My hands started shaking on Houston Street. Not a little. Real shaking. I pressed them between my knees. The driver glanced at me in the mirror, then looked away.

Ten minutes. I counted. By Fourteenth Street, they stopped.

It wasn't the man at the bar. I could handle men at bars.

It was how fast Drake said *mine*.

---

The next Thursday, we were at his townhouse. He sat on the leather couch with his feet on the coffee table. I sat beside him with his arm heavy across my shoulders. A game was on TV.

My phone buzzed. It was my boss, calling about a filing problem that was due by morning.

I answered without thinking. "Hi, Linda. Yes. No, I can fix it tonight—"

The arm on my shoulders went still.

I looked over. His jaw was locked. His eyes were on the TV, but he wasn't watching it. He wasn't blinking. His whole body had stopped, like a dog right before it bites.

The tell.

"Linda, I'll call you back in five." I hung up.

I set the phone face-down on the coffee table. Slowly. I put it where he could see it.

"I'm sorry," I said. I touched his arm. The muscle was hard as a pipe. "That was so rude of me. I don't know why I did that. I'm terrible at this."

He didn't answer.

"You'd think I'd learn by now." I gave a small, embarrassed laugh. "Work is the boring part of my life. You're the good part."

Silence. On the TV, the crowd cheered.

"Who said you could answer?" he said finally. His voice was low.

"Nobody. That's the point. I should have asked." I let my fingers slide down to his wrist. "Can I make it up to you? I was thinking Saturday. Le Bernardin. The window table you like. I'll call tomorrow and ask for Henri."

Three seconds. Four.

His jaw unlocked. He let out a long breath through his nose.

"Eight o'clock," he said. "Not seven-thirty. They rush you at seven-thirty."

"Eight," I said. "Of course."

He pulled me back under his arm. The game went on.

Twenty minutes later, I said I needed the bathroom.

I locked the door. The light was too bright. White marble. Gold faucets. My face in the mirror looked calm. My hands on the sink did not.

His gold watch lay by the soap dish. I watched the second hand go around. I didn't move.

Three minutes.

Then my fingers were still.

I took out my phone and texted Marcus.

*Need one more thing. Drake's 2019 settlement. The woman. I want the exact timeline. When the first incident happened. When it got worse. How many months in between.*

Three dots. Then: *Why?*

I looked at the locked door and the thin line of light under it.

*Because I need to know how much time I have.*