A Suited Proposal
I've been at Suède Noir long enough that nothing surprises me anymore. Billionaires cry the same as broke men. Politicians lie easier than they breathe. Celebrities? They're just lonely people with better lighting.
But when my manager, Celeste, pulled me into her office this morning, her jaw was set so tight I thought her teeth might crack.
"No brief," she said, sliding a black folder across her desk. It was empty. "Just a name. And a warning."
I raised an eyebrow. "I don't do warnings."
"Today you do." She held my gaze. "He's Irish. Connected. And he doesn't ask twice."
I didn't flinch. I just took the empty folder and walked out.
Now I'm sitting in the back office, the one with the two-way mirror and the leather chairs that cost more than my first car. I catch my reflection in the dark glass. Twenty-two years old. Brunette hair falling past my shoulders, catching the low amber light. Full lips, sharp cheekbones, a body that's opened more doors than a master key.
I don't dress loud. Tonight it's a simple black dress, sleeveless, hem just above the knee. Heels that could double as weapons. I touch my lips once — no more lipstick needed — and let my hair fall where it wants.
Less is more, I remind myself. Mystery is a drug.
The door opens.
He doesn't knock. Of course he doesn't.
The man who steps inside is tall, lean, dressed in a charcoal suit that fits like it was stitched onto him while he stood perfectly still. His hair is dark, cropped short on the sides. His face is all sharp angles and shadows. Late thirties, maybe. Hard to tell. Some men wear their years like armor.
But it's his eyes that catch me. Pale blue. Cold. The kind of eyes that have watched people break and felt nothing.
He doesn't smile. Doesn't offer a hand. Just stands there, sizing me up like I'm a car he's thinking of buying.
I stay exactly where I am — legs crossed, back straight, one hand resting on the arm of the chair. I don't stand. I don't speak first. That's the rule: Let them come to you.
His gaze drags over me slowly. Face. Neck. The curve of my shoulder. Down to my knees and back up again. Most men try to hide it. He doesn't bother.
"Lacey," he says. Not a question. He already knows my name.
"Mm." I tilt my head slightly. "And you are?"
He moves then, crossing to the chair across from me. He doesn't sit. Instead, he places one hand on the back of it and leans forward just enough to close some of the space between us.
"Someone who doesn't repeat himself," he says. His voice is low, controlled, wrapped in a thick Irish accent — the kind that makes vowels sound dangerous. "So I'll say this once."
I wait. My pulse doesn't change.
"I'm looking for someone who can get close to someone else," he continues. "Someone who knows how to... persuade. To make them want things they didn't know they wanted."
I let the silence stretch. Two seconds. Three. Then I uncross my legs slowly — not seduction, just movement — and lean back in my chair.
"You drove all the way here," I say, "paid Suède Noir's consultation fee, and sat in front of me without even offering your name... to tell me something I already know how to do?"
His eyes flicker. Not anger. Interest.
"I like that," he says quietly.
"Like what?"
"That you're not impressed."
I smile. Small. Just enough. "I'm not here to be impressed, sir. I'm here to work. So either tell me what you actually want, or save us both the trouble and walk out that door."
He stares at me for a long moment. Then, finally — finally — the corner of his mouth twitches.
"Finn," he says. "My name is Finn."
I let his name hang in the air between us, tasting it.
"Alright, Finn." I stand up, smoothing my dress, and walk past him toward the door. I stop with my hand on the handle and glance back over my shoulder. "You want someone to make a target want something? Then you need to tell me what that something is. And more importantly — why they don't already have it."
I open the door.
"Buy me a drink first," I add. "Then we'll talk."
I don't wait for his answer. I walk out into the hallway, heels clicking against the marble, and I know — without looking back — that he's following.
