The futon creaked like it was about to break under the weight of another borrowed night.
Imani blinked up at a ceiling that wasn't hers—again. Yellowed with water stains, the plaster looked like it was melting under the weak ceiling fan. The smell of old weed, cheap perfume, and hair relaxer still clung to the walls of her friend Brielle's apartment. One room, one bathroom, four girls, and no goddamn boundaries.
A bra hung from the doorknob like a warning.
She stretched her legs and felt the blanket tug—someone had rolled into it beside her during the night. She didn't look to see who. She just peeled herself out of the tangle, grabbed her phone, and slid into the corner of the room like a rat with somewhere to be.
7:43 AM.
15% battery.
No new emails. Two new texts.
The first was from Brielle:
"Don't drink my damn almond milk again."
The second came from a name she didn't recognize. No emojis. No flirt. Just words:
KAEL M.: I don't chase. Come ready.
She stared at it.
That was it?
She opened the app. He had matched with her sometime after midnight. His profile was nearly empty—no quotes, no bio. Just three photos: one in a suit, standing next to a silver car she couldn't name; one with a city skyline behind him; and one where his face was barely visible in shadow.
Every girl she knew had a Kael. The quiet kind who made money in mysterious ways, said too little, and lived too far above you to ask questions. Most of them weren't worth the bruises. But this one… this one was different. He didn't try to impress. He didn't try at all.
Imani bit her bottom lip and typed back:
"What do I come ready for?"
The reply came instantly.
Dinner. 8PM. Astoria Grill. Dress right.
No "lol." No emoji. Not even a "see you there."
She stared at the name. Kael M. She tapped on it again and again, as if more information would appear. Nothing.
She should've felt insulted.
She felt hungry.
Hungry for what, exactly, she couldn't say.
Maybe it was for someone who didn't waste time. Maybe it was for a man who didn't fill silences with pickup lines or talk about star signs like it mattered. Or maybe—just maybe—it was because Kael sounded like the kind of man who didn't need her. And Imani had learned, a long time ago, that the ones who didn't need you were always the ones worth chasing.
She scrolled back through the chat. It wasn't long.
KAEL M.: I don't chase. Come ready.
"What do I come ready for?"
Dinner. 8PM. Astoria Grill. Dress right.
No name, no age, no fake compliments. He didn't say he liked her smile. He didn't call her "babe" or ask for her Snapchat. He gave an order. Like she'd already agreed to follow it.
Dress right.
That part sat in her chest like a pill she hadn't swallowed.
She tapped out another message, thumb hovering above send:
"Should I bring pepper spray too?"
Then she deleted it.
No. He wasn't that kind of man. Or if he was, he wouldn't bother warning you first.
She opened his photos again.
In the first, he was in a black suit, tailored so tight it looked like it was sewn onto him. The shirt was open at the collar. No tie. A silver watch peeked out from his sleeve like a whisper of money. The car behind him was sleek, silver, and low to the ground. She didn't know models—only that it looked expensive enough to make parking attendants nervous.
In the second photo, he was standing alone on what looked like a rooftop, with a skyline burning orange behind him. His hands were in his pockets. Head turned slightly. The light touched his mouth but left his eyes in shadow.
The third photo was darker. Not the filter—him. He was shirtless. Half turned away. Shadows swallowed half his body. It wasn't thirsty. It wasn't even confident. It was something worse.
Untouchable.
Don't chase me, the profile whispered. I won't run.
Imani dropped the phone into her lap. Her knee bounced. She felt itchy all over.
He hadn't even said "hi."
He hadn't even asked for her name.
She'd already said yes.
And that meant she had about twelve hours to become someone worth dressing for.
Imani crawled over Brielle's sleeping legs and tiptoed past the girl passed out in the bathroom. The place smelled like flat soda, curling iron smoke, and old mascara. She moved like a thief in a house where nothing was hers—even though she'd slept here all week.
Inside the only bedroom with a door, she pulled open the closet with the quiet kind of desperation she'd perfected.
She didn't knock. She never did.
Jade was still snoring, one leg flung across a body pillow like she owned the world. Imani slid open the plastic bins under her bed and began hunting. Skirts. Tops. Two purses. None were exactly clean. One was definitely stolen. But they'd do.
She pulled out a black dress—low-cut, clingy, with one shoulder strap that always slid down if you didn't double-stick it. It had belonged to Brielle before she "loaned" it to Jade. Now it was community property.
Imani held it up to herself in the mirror. She hadn't shaved her legs. Her roots were coming in. She had three pimples trying to start fights on her jawline. But the dress? The dress didn't care.
She peeled off her oversized sleep shirt, stepped into the black fabric, and pulled it over her hips. Too tight. Good.
She yanked open the makeup drawer and took what she needed: concealer (two shades too light), mascara (dried out but usable), and a lip gloss that still smelled faintly of coconut. Her fingers moved fast. She knew this face already—the fake face. She'd worn it on interviews she never got, dates that never paid, and court hearings where she swore she was sober.
But tonight, it had to say something different.
I don't need your approval. Just your attention.
The door creaked behind her.
Brielle leaned against the frame, arms crossed, a brow raised. "Tell me you're not taking my good lashes again."
Imani didn't flinch. "They're Jade's."
"She took them from me."
"Then I'm restoring balance."
Brielle smirked but didn't move. "So who's the guy?"
"Kael," Imani said, dabbing concealer under her eyes like war paint.
"Kael?" Brielle repeated, stepping inside. "What is he, a vampire?"
"He trades crypto."
Brielle blinked. "Oh. So a scammer."
Imani gave a one-shoulder shrug. "He drives a car that hums when it stops. Not bad for a scammer."
Brielle moved to the window and peeked out at the morning traffic. "And what's the plan if he's a catfish?"
"Then I make him pay for dinner and block him before dessert."
"And if he's not?"
Imani looked up in the mirror, eyes catching her friend's reflection.
"If he's not," she said quietly, "I make him want to see me again."
Astoria Grill wasn't the kind of place you walked into unless you had a reservation—or the face of someone who could ruin a manager's life on Yelp.
Imani hesitated in front of the glass doors, one hand on her hip, the other holding her cheap clutch with the gold chain peeling. The dress hugged her like it had opinions. Her shoes were a half-size too small. Her lipstick kept sticking to her teeth. And her heart?
It wasn't beating. It was pacing.
A valet held the door open, but didn't greet her. His eyes swept over her outfit—once, sharply—before he looked away like she didn't matter. Maybe she didn't. Not yet.
Inside, the restaurant felt like a hotel lobby that had graduated from Harvard and never smiled again. Everything was glass and stone, sleek and ambient. Nobody spoke above a whisper. Everyone's shoes made expensive sounds on the marble.
A hostess looked up from her podium. "Do you have a reservation, miss?"
"Kael," Imani said. "He's already here."
The woman scanned the tablet, nodded once, and gestured toward the back of the room. "Table twelve. That way."
Imani walked slowly. Like she belonged. Like she wasn't wearing underwear that dug into her ribs and shoes she stole from her cousin's wedding.
She saw him before he saw her.
Or maybe not.
He didn't look up.
Kael sat at the corner table like it was a throne: one arm resting on the white tablecloth, the other turning a glass of water by its stem. Black suit, no tie. Collar open. His hair was clean, sharp, a little messy like he didn't try, but maybe he had. The kind of messy you bought with money.
He was beautiful.
But not in the pretty-boy way. Beautiful like a scalpel—precise, dangerous, and not made for decoration.
She stopped beside the table.
Kael didn't stand.
He looked up, slowly, eyes meeting hers with a silence that scraped something inside her chest.
No smile.
No "you look amazing."
Just: "Sit."
She did.
The table was quiet. Too quiet. A couple next to them was mid-fight, but their voices barely cracked the air. Forks clinked softly. Someone coughed.
Kael stared at her.
Not in a way that tried to figure her out. In a way that already had.
Imani crossed her legs, leaned back, tried not to blink first.
"You're early," she said.
"You're five minutes late."
Her lips twitched. "Fashionably."
His eyes dropped to the neckline of her dress, then back to her face. "It works."
It wasn't a compliment. It was an assessment.
"Thanks," she said anyway.
Kael didn't pick up the menu. "You like lamb?"
"Depends."
He lifted a brow. "On what?"
"On whether you're paying."
He signaled a waiter with two fingers, without looking. "I'm paying."
She waited for him to say something else. He didn't.
The waiter arrived. Kael ordered without asking her: chargrilled lamb for him, seared scallops for her, side of truffle fries to share, two glasses of something that sounded French and unreadable.
Imani blinked.
Kael handed back the menus and didn't look at her until the waiter was gone.
"You're used to men asking," he said.
"Most of them do."
"I'm not most of them."
"No," she said, leaning forward, "you're the type that already decided if I'd be impressed."
His expression didn't change. "Are you?"
She smiled slowly. "You'll know by dessert."
Kael didn't smile at that.
He studied her—not her face exactly, but everything else. Her hands, the tension in her jaw, how she kept one foot hooked around the leg of her chair like she might run. His gaze was cold but not cruel. Curious, like he was evaluating a trade, not a date.
The wine arrived in two silent glasses. He didn't toast. Just sipped.
Imani mirrored him—out of spite more than politeness.
"Do you always order for your dates?" she asked, letting the wine coat her tongue. It tasted expensive. She wasn't sure if she liked it.
"I'm not dating you."
That landed like a slap she couldn't decide how to feel about.
"I see," she said lightly. "So what am I doing here?"
"You accepted," he said. "You're here because you're curious."
She tilted her head. "About what?"
"About what I'll let you get away with."
Imani sat back, wineglass still in her fingers. Her heartbeat climbed a little. She couldn't decide if he was joking. He didn't sound like it.
"I don't usually do well with rules," she said.
"I don't usually offer many."
She snorted. "You don't think that's a rule?"
Kael shrugged. "Call it a standard."
The waiter returned with bread, a tiny dish of oil, and more silence. When he left again, Kael pushed the basket toward her. She didn't take any.
"Where are you from?" he asked.
Imani blinked. "That's the first normal thing you've said tonight."
"Don't get used to it."
"Bronx," she answered. "You?"
"Upper East."
"Shocking."
"Is that sarcasm?"
"No," she said sweetly. "It's awe."
Kael didn't flinch. "You don't like men with money?"
"I like men who earned it."
"I was making more than my father by seventeen."
She raised a brow. "Stocks?"
"Among other things."
"Crypto?"
He nodded once.
"Scamming," she said flatly.
Kael finally smiled. A real one. It was small, crooked, and cruel in a way that made her stomach knot.
"I liquidated at the peak," he said. "I don't scam. I leave early."
She didn't want to be impressed.
She was.
Their food arrived too soon. Seared scallops for her—perfectly round, sitting in a sauce that looked like melted gold. Lamb for him, sliced already, bleeding faintly into the plate like it had secrets.
Kael didn't wait.
He took his first bite, chewed once, and said, "What's your worst trait?"
She paused, fork mid-air. "I bite."
"That's not a trait. That's a warning."
"Consider yourself warned."
He looked at her mouth when she said that. Not in a hungry way. In a calculating one.
Imani forced herself to cut a scallop, bring it to her lips slowly. "What about you?" she asked. "What's your worst trait?"
Kael didn't hesitate.
"I don't believe people."
"You think I'm lying right now?"
"No," he said. "But you will."