OneChloe leans both elbows on the table, slicks on another layer of half-melted lipstick (L’Oréal Colour Riche Satin, shade: Worth It), and decides she’s really not asking the universe for that much. Tonight, it comes down to three things—for the humidity to remain at a somewhat reasonable level, for the straps of her thrifted ball gown to stop coming apart around her neck, and for the aging millionaire at her table to stay awake long enough for her to take all his money.
Three perfectly reasonable requests, in her opinion.
Chloe eyes her reflection in the table’s glittering centerpiece as she tucks the lipstick back down the front of her dress. Between the layers of wilted red tulle and the smooth wave of her normally unruly hair, she hardly recognizes herself in the decorative glass. The centerpiece does, however, give her a clear view of Logan standing against the ornate wallpaper behind her, a tray of overpriced hors d’oeuvres propped lazily in one hand.
Perfect.
He’s on time, she’s ready to move, and her date for the evening is two glasses in to a wine-fueled monologue about software development. It’s now or never.
“Ready?”
Priya’s voice is barely audible over the chatter of the party and Chloe resists the urge to adjust the wireless earbud hidden behind her hair. She can’t respond here, but there’s a flicker of movement in the centerpiece as Logan steps away from the wall, tray passing effortlessly from hand to hand as he cuts his way through the dinner crowd.
“I was born ready, Priya, darling.”
Chloe resists the urge to roll her eyes. Logan’s always had a thing for dramatics, even in places like this. It’s something she learned the day she found him building an illegal air-conditioning unit on the floor of their freshman dorm, insisting she should dump his lifeless, overheated body in front of the dean’s office if he didn’t finish by noon. Now, she blames his day job and the
Now You See Me films for feeding his amateur magician’s ego. Logan might have two different birthday parties booked tomorrow, but he’s here tonight and their plan begins the way they all do—with Chloe sitting across from a mark too rich for his own good, who, despite everything, is still completely oblivious to the cunning tilt of her lips.
This one was almost too easy to corner. James Montgomery Webber, seventy-two. A tech billionaire who recently tore up half a mile of Miami beachfront to build a sprawling new office hub. He currently employs half the city and he’s single-handedly funding half of Andrew Carlyle’s senate campaign, which is how he scored an invitation to tonight’s festivities. Right up front at an exclusive, donors-only dinner in one of the Carlyle hotels.
He wasn’t necessarily the target Chloe would have chosen, but there’s an art to these things she’s learned not to push.
“Sandwich?”
Logan leans over their table, tray extended in Webber’s direction. The warm scent of his cologne washes over them (Tom Ford, Ombré Leather), and Chloe risks a glance in his direction. Logan’s mouth is turned down in an expression of bored disinterest, but there’s a soft pink color painted across his already full lips. Because
of course he found time to touch up. They both spent the last hour sweating outside, slipping their way through security checkpoints and locked doors, but god forbid Logan Amesfield show up to an event looking anything less than perfect.
Chloe grabs two tiny sandwiches off his tray and tries not to think about the frizzy curls currently sticking to the back of her neck. “Thanks.”
Webber barely looks up. Light from the chandelier flashes off his diamond-encrusted watch as he waves Logan away, like the mere presence of a waiter at their table is an inconvenience. Again, Chloe barely refrains from rolling her eyes. If she were working tonight or wearing her usual catering uniform, Webber wouldn’t spare her a glance either. He’d look right through her on his way to the bar, but tonight, she’s off the clock. She’s armed with four-inch heels and borrowed lipstick, and Logan’s interruption gives her the opening she needs.
“What were you saying?” Chloe leans in, knee casually brushing Webber’s under the table. “The app you’re developing. What’s it called?”
Webber blinks. The motion exaggerates the wrinkles around his eyes, but his forehead remains unnaturally still. “You mean Slique?”
“Yes! What a great name.”
It’s not. It’s ridiculous, but everything about James Montgomery Webber is ridiculous. Chloe’s not about to get picky now. She slides one finger up his arm, stopping just inside the crook of his elbow. “What does it do, again?”
She has him; Chloe feels it as Webber’s gaze slides from her face to the neckline of her gown before finally dropping to her hand. He clears his throat. “It’s a black car service. For luxury vehicles and on-call drivers.”
“Oh!” Chloe blinks. “So it’s like Uber?”
A hint of a smile touches the corner of Webber’s mouth. “Not exactly. Imagine you land in a new city. Your regular driver is back home, and you don’t know who to trust. What do you do?”
Chloe’s pretty sure 99 percent of the population will never actually encounter that problem, but she tilts her head anyway, feigning confusion. “I don’t know.”
“Exactly.” Webber grins, eyes still roaming unsubtly down the length of her body. “That’s where we come in.”
If there’s one thing rich people love more than being rich, Chloe thinks, it’s explaining in great, condescending detail exactly how rich they are. James Montgomery Webber has enough money to change the world yet here he is—drinking wine in the ballroom of a luxury hotel and breaking down the basics of capitalism to a girl fifty years his junior.
Some people don’t deserve nice things.
Some people deserve to have their watches stolen.
It’s only when Priya’s voice comes through the earbud again that Chloe realizes she’s instinctively tightening her grip, fingers curling into the fabric of Webber’s jacket as she imagines him jumping into a solid-gold Slique car, filled to the brim with glittering Scrooge McDuck coins.
“Corner by the balcony. Four o’clock.”
Priya is talking around a mouthful of food—probably the pad thai they all ordered for dinner—and Chloe’s stomach growls at the thought.
“Really?” Logan asks. “That corner looks pretty exposed.”
Chloe can practically hear Priya’s eye roll through the line. “Have I ever been wrong, Logan?”
“Many times.”
“About
this?”
“Okay, no, but—”
“Then stop complaining. Let me know when you’re ready.”
Chloe releases her grip on Webber and shoots a quick glance toward the wall. The area Priya suggested
is exposed, people wandering on and off the balcony on their way to the bar, but Priya has also never failed to find a security blind spot. Chloe pictures her in the back of her trusty orange Subaru, feet propped against the dashboard, romance novel in her lap as she tracks them through the party from several blocks away. If she says the corner is their best bet, Chloe will make it work. She gives herself three more seconds to plan a route and then, when Webber pauses for breath, she makes her move.
“Oh, I get it!” she exclaims, face lighting up. “Your app is like Charm.”
“No, it’s . . .” Webber breaks off, confusion threatening to crack the Botox-induced stillness of his forehead. “Wait, what’s Charm?”
“That new rideshare app?” Chloe pulls out her phone. “The one with the armored cars? That’s who you got the idea from, right?”
“I . . . no. We’re revolutionizing the future of luxury transportation. I’ve never heard of
Charm.”
“Sure you have! They’re everywhere. I literally took a Charm car to dinner tonight. I’ll show you.”
Chloe opens her phone, screen deliberately shielded so Webber can’t see she’s tapping at nothing.
Priya snorts faintly in her ear. “I still can’t believe that works.”
“Right?” Logan mutters. “Dibs on gaslighting the next CEO. It’s not fair Chloe gets to have fun while I’m stuck in a cummerbund.”
“I think you look handsome.”
“Please be serious, Priya, I look like a killer whale.”
Chloe ignores them and stands, phone extended above her head like she’s trying to catch a signal. “There’s never any service at these things.” She heaves a defeated sigh. “Come on, let’s try by the window.”
She starts toward the balcony without looking back and, because she’s good at her job, because men like Webber truly believe the world is supposed to open for them, he follows.
Copyright © 2026 by Jenna Voris. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
