Page 3 of Paid With Innocence

I open my eyes and scoff as I grab my purse off the back of my Goodwill chair.

“Yeah, and maybe Derek will turn out to be a women’s rights activist.”

Trish cackles, and I give her a peck on the cheek before heading out. Taking the stairs in these heels is like hiking down Mount Everest in the middle of a storm. I’m a Crocs girl—a sandals girl. Any kind of slip-on slip-off shoe that makes my life easier.

As I step outside, I break out in goosebumps, and it’s not because it’s cold out; it’s because there’s a man in a suit standing outside the car, and he is not Orson.

“Good evening, miss,” he says flatly as he opens the back door for me. “I’m William. I’ll be your driver this evening.”

Wow, Orson has a driver? That’s what I want to say. But Trish would never say that, and I’m supposed to be Trish tonight. So doing what is probably an over-the-top impression of my best friend, I simply nod and slide in like the princess I’m supposed to be.

I was right; this car is a mansion on wheels. The amount of leg room seems impossible. There are two screens, cup holders, and if I’m not mistaken, recliner controls. Just for fun, I press one of them, and yep, the seat tilts back.

“Wow,” I say under my breath as William pulls out of the driveway. This is like flying first class to dinner. The night has barely started, and it’s like I’ve stepped into another universe. This is really how the other half lives, huh? Expensive leather, reclining seats, personal drivers…

Meanwhile, I can’t even pay my rent or afford a place with an actual kitchen.

I keep thinking back to the picture of the man I’m supposed to be meeting tonight. It can’t be real, can it? Trish has to be playing a prank on me. She must have pulled up a photo of a male model or used AI to generate one or something. He was so good-looking that I’m getting nervous just thinking about it. And as we pull into the expensive part of town, where only the rich people go, I’m sure I’m going to have a panic attack.

You’re gonna do great. I replay Trisha’s words in my mind as I practice square breathing and try to relax. Freaking out at this point won’t help anybody. But when William pulls up in front of L’Oiseau d’Or, the most exclusive restaurant in the city, and I see all the gorgeous women in their expensive dresses and jewelry, I grab my phone and dial Trish.

It rings once, and that’s when my door opens. William extends his hand. “We’ve arrived.”

This is it. I can’t back out now. Not only am I broke and this close to being out on the street, but I also promised my friend I’d cover for her. And we never go back on a promise when we’ve made one.

“Don’t freak out!” Her voice buzzes from my phone, clutched at my side.

“Sorry,” I hiss back. “We’re here. Gotta go!”

I quickly hang up, then reach out and take William’s hand. He helps me step out of the car, and somehow, I manage not to topple over like a tree as I walk up to the door. A couple of girls give me the look—the one the cool girls in school always give anyone that isn’t them—and I instantly feel even more out of place than I already do.

A man in a black suit raises his chin as I walk up to him. “Name, please?”

“Um, Megan—” I start to say, but then realize what an idiot I am. He’s not going to have my name on the reservation. Why would he? “Orson…” God, what was his last name?

“Orson,” I say confidently. “Orson Brooks.”

The maître d’ smiles instantly, as if I just said the secret passcode.

“Right this way.”

It’s like I’m floating as I step into the restaurant. You can practically feel the money. So much wealth. Bottles of champagne, gold watches, and diamonds everywhere. Even the way these people behave is a far cry from the regulars I get at the diner. They laugh like they own the world, and I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them do.

Focusing on my breaths, I keep walking, every step deliberate. You’re not gonna fall. You’re not gonna fall.

Just when I think I’ve got myself under control, I see him.

He sits like a king at a table on his own—a table with more space around it than any of the others in the room, like the restaurant is giving him special treatment. He sits cross-legged and upright, surveying the room.

Even seated, I can tell he’s tall, well over six foot. His hair is dark and immaculately combed back. His green eyes are crisp and electric, and his jaw looks like it was carved out of stone. He has just a tiny hint of stubble and broad shoulders like a gladiator in a suit. When he sees me, his eyes narrow, and my heart leaps.

And that’s when I realize that the photo Trish showed me of him wasn’t accurate at all.

He is way better looking in person, and that just does not seem possible.

“Hello, Trish,” he says with a smile that nearly knocks me over. “Nice to meet you. I’m Orson.”

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