Shadow Creek spread out before her like a green promise cut into the desert—emerald fairways against tan hills, water features catching the late afternoon sun. Jessie stood at the first tee box, a driver in her hands that she hadn't asked for, and tried to remember how to breathe.

Victor Castellano stood six feet away, watching her settle into her stance with those dark eyes that missed nothing. He'd been waiting when she arrived, already stretching, already holding a club like it was an extension of his arm. No handshake. Just that slow smile and a gesture toward the tee.

"You look nervous," he said. "Don't be. It's just golf."

She'd laughed, but it came out thin. "I've never played."

"Then I'll teach you."

He'd handed her the driver—heavier than she expected, the grip worn in exactly the right places—and now she stood over the ball, her knuckles white, trying to remember what her father had shown her once, years ago, in a field behind their church.

This wasn't a field. This was a private golf course where memberships cost more than her college tuition.

"Relax your hands," Victor said, and then he was behind her, closer than she'd braced for. His chest brushed her shoulder blades, solid and warm. His arm came around her, his hand covering hers on the grip, fingers sliding between hers to adjust the angle.

She went still.

"Like this," he said, his voice low at her ear, and she felt his breath stir the fine hairs at her temple. "Your thumbs should be aligned. Here—" He shifted her left thumb a fraction of an inch, and his palm settled on her hip, pressing lightly, guiding her weight onto her back foot.

The pressure of his hand through her skirt was a brand. She could feel every point of contact: his chest against her spine, his fingers laced with hers, his hip against the curve of her ass as he adjusted her stance. He held the position a beat longer than necessary, and she didn't pull away.

She let him.

"Good," he said, and the word was almost a whisper. "Now keep your eye on the ball. Don't lift your head until after you've made contact."

He stepped back, and the absence of his body was a physical thing—a chill where the heat had been. She blinked, gripping the club, suddenly aware of her own heartbeat.

"Go ahead," he said, and she heard the smile in his voice. "Show me what you've got."

Jessie set her feet, remembering the stance he'd guided her into. She brought the club back, felt the weight of it arc behind her, and then she swung.

The crack of the ball leaving the clubface was cleaner than she'd expected. She kept her head down, followed through, and when she finally looked up, the ball was still climbing—a white streak against the blue desert sky, sailing past the first bunker, past the second, bouncing once and rolling to a stop near the pin.

Three hundred yards. Maybe more.

Victor's laugh cut across the grass—a real laugh, surprised and delighted. "You played," he said. It wasn't a question.

She turned, and he was shaking his head, the club he'd been holding forgotten at his side. His eyes had that sharp, appraising look again, but there was something new in them. Respect, maybe. Or curiosity.

"College," she said, and she heard the slight drawl creep into her voice, the way it did when she was off-balance. "Emory University. I played four years."

He stared at her a moment longer, then laughed again. "You let me adjust your stance."

"You seemed so confident."

"I looked like an idiot."

"No," she said, and she felt a smile pull at her lips. "You looked like a man who knows what he's doing. I didn't want to spoil the illusion."

He walked toward her, and she held her ground. He stopped close—too close for the golf course, too close for business. The sun was behind him, casting his face in shadow, and she could smell him again. That clean, leather-and-citrus scent she remembered from the restaurant.

"You're full of surprises, Jessie Miller."

"Is that a problem?"

"No." His voice was lower now. "It's a pleasure."

He reached for the driver in her hands, and she let him take it. His fingers brushed hers, and the touch lingered a half-second longer than it needed to. His eyes held hers as he took the club, and she felt that thing again—that small, dangerous thrill she'd felt at Il Tavolo when she'd told him no.

Only this time, she hadn't said no.

"You played college golf," he said, turning the driver over in his hands. "That means you're competitive. You don't like to lose."

"I don't," she said.

"Good." He set the club in the bag and turned back to her. "Because I want to seal this deal on my yacht. Bring a swimsuit."

The words landed like a stone in still water. She felt the ripple go through her—surprise, yes, but also something else. Something that heated her cheeks and tightened her chest.

"Your yacht," she repeated.

"My yacht." He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. "I have a forty-eight-foot Beneteau docked at Lake Mead. I take prospective partners out to dinner on the water. It's how I do business."

She heard the word—partners—and she held onto it. "Prospective partners."

"Yes."

"And the swimsuit?"

His smile was slow, deliberate. "The sunsets are extraordinary. I thought you might want to enjoy one."

She could have said no. She could have told him she'd prefer a conference room, a restaurant, something with a table between them and a door she could walk through. That would have been the safe choice. The Jessie from Bainbridge would have said no.

But she wasn't that Jessie anymore. She was the girl who had closed Marcus Webb's deal, who had told Victor Castellano he was inappropriate and watched him laugh. She was the girl who was learning what power tasted like.

"What day?" she asked.

His eyebrows lifted—just a fraction, just enough to tell her he hadn't been sure she'd say yes. "Saturday. I'll have a car pick you up at four."

"I'll bring a swimsuit."

He held her gaze for a long moment, and then he nodded, something shifting in his expression. Not a smile, but close. Approval, maybe. Or anticipation.

"Good." He picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. "We're playing the back nine. I hope you're ready to lose."

"I thought you said you didn't like to lose."

"I don't. But I'd enjoy watching you try."

She followed him to the next tee, her heels sinking slightly into the grass. The desert sun was warm on her shoulders, the folder with the trial deal still in her car, and somewhere in her chest, that small, dangerous thing was growing.

She was becoming someone worth remembering.

And Victor Castellano wanted to take her out on his yacht.

She thought of Stacey, of the pineapple code stapled to the doorframe, of Steve's voice telling her she was becoming power itself. She thought of the girl who had never been kissed, the one who had said her first name meant "wealthy" and her last name meant "someone who works with their hands."

That girl was still there, somewhere. But she was quieter now.

As Victor walked ahead, Jessie adjusted the collar of her blouse and followed him onto the fairway. The sun was beginning to drop toward the horizon, painting the desert in shades of orange and pink. It was beautiful, she thought. The kind of beautiful that you only saw in places like this—places where money moved like water, and people like Victor Castellano decided what the view was worth.

She was going to close this deal. Not because Steve had told her to, not because she was afraid of what would happen if she failed. Because she wanted to. Because Victor Castellano made her feel like she was standing at the edge of something, and she wanted to see what was on the other side.

By the time they reached the fourth hole, he had stopped treating her like a student. He let her choose her own club, watched her swing with a quiet respect, and when she outdrove him by twenty yards, he just shook his head and said, "Emory, huh?"

"Emory," she confirmed.

"I went to Georgetown."

"I know. I read your file."

He laughed—that easy, genuine laugh—and for a moment, they were just two people on a golf course, the deal forgotten, the tension between them buried under the rhythm of the game. She liked him, she realized. Not in the way Steve wanted her to, not as a mark or a target. She liked his laugh, the way he didn't take himself too seriously when she beat him. She liked that he had respected her no at Il Tavolo.

She liked that he had asked her to bring a swimsuit.

The thought made her stomach tighten. She pushed it away, focused on her swing.

They finished the round as the sun was setting, the sky a riot of color over the desert. Victor signed for the drinks they'd had at the turn—two bottles of water, which he'd raised an eyebrow at, but she'd said she was driving, and he'd let it go.

In the parking lot, he walked her to her car. The folder with the trial deal was visible through the window, and he glanced at it, then back at her.

"So," he said. "Saturday. Four o'clock."

"I'll be ready."

"I hope so." He said it softly, and there was something in his voice that made her breath catch. "I have a feeling this is going to be a very interesting negotiation."

He didn't shake her hand. He just held her gaze for a long moment, and then he turned and walked back toward his own car—a black sedan that probably cost more than her entire salary for the next three years.

Jessie stood by her car, the keys in her hand, and watched him go. The desert air was cool now, the sun a sliver of orange on the horizon. She felt the weight of the folder in her back seat, the weight of Steve's expectations, the weight of the choice she was making.

She got into the car, started the engine, and sat there for a moment, her hands on the wheel, the air conditioner blowing cool against her flushed skin.

Saturday.

She was going to Victor Castellano's yacht.

And she was bringing a swimsuit.

The drive home was a blur of desert light and highway hum. Jessie kept her hands at ten and two on the wheel, the way her father had taught her, and she tried to quiet the voice in her head that sounded like Stacey—sharp and worried, asking what the hell she thought she was doing.

She didn't have an answer. Not one that would satisfy Stacey, anyway.

The apartment was quiet when she let herself in. Stacey's work bag was on the kitchen counter, her heels kicked off by the door, and the smell of something warm and savory drifted from the stove. Jessie stopped in the entryway, the folder still pressed against her chest, and watched her best friend stir a pot of what looked like marinara sauce, her back to the door.

"You're home early," Stacey said without turning. "I figured you'd be out celebrating."

"Celebrating?"

"The Castellano deal. I heard through the grapevine." Stacey turned, a wooden spoon in her hand, and her brown eyes swept over Jessie with that sharp, assessing look she'd perfected. "You closed him. Steve's been walking around the office like he just won the lottery."

Jessie set the folder on the kitchen table. "It's a trial deal. Thirty days."

"A trial deal with Victor Castellano is worth more than most people's full contracts." Stacey wiped her hands on a dish towel and crossed to the table, her bare feet silent on the tile. She didn't sit. She stood across from Jessie, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. "How'd you do it?"

"I told him he was inappropriate."

Stacey blinked. "You what?"

"He touched my hand at dinner. I pulled away and told him it was inappropriate." Jessie shrugged, but the gesture felt hollow. "He laughed. Then he signed."

For a long moment, Stacey just stared at her. Then she let out a breath that was half laugh, half something else. "Jesus, Jess. That's—" She shook her head. "That's actually brilliant."

"It wasn't a strategy. I just—" Jessie stopped. She thought about Victor's hand on hers, the heat of his palm, the way she'd pulled back without thinking. "I just didn't want him to think he could have whatever he wanted."

"And he respected that." Stacey's voice was softer now. "That's good. That's really good."

Jessie nodded, but she didn't meet Stacey's eyes. Because there was more—the yacht, the swimsuit, the way Victor had looked at her when he'd said it. And she couldn't tell Stacey that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

"There's more," Stacey said, and it wasn't a question.

Jessie's heart stuttered. "What?"

"Dinner." Stacey gestured at the stove. "I made enough for both of us. Figured you'd be hungry after whatever power lunch Steve probably didn't buy you."

The relief was so sharp it almost hurt. Jessie forced a smile. "I could eat."

They ate at the small kitchen table, the same table where they'd shared a thousand meals since moving to Las Vegas. Stacey talked about her day—inside sales, a client who had yelled at her for ten minutes about a billing error that wasn't her fault, a coworker who kept leaving dirty coffee cups in the break room sink. Normal things. Safe things.

Jessie nodded in the right places, laughed when Stacey's story demanded it, and pushed pasta around her plate without eating much.

"You okay?" Stacey asked, halfway through her second glass of wine.

"Just tired."

"You're not tired. You're somewhere else." Stacey set down her fork. "What happened at the golf course?"

Jessie's fork paused mid-air. "How do you know about the golf course?"

"Because Victor Castellano's assistant called Steve to confirm the tee time. And Steve's assistant told my supervisor, who told me." Stacey's smile was thin. "It's a small office, Jess. Everyone knows everything."

Jessie set down her fork. The pasta was suddenly unappetizing. "It was just a business meeting."

"On a golf course. With a man who's known for two things: his money and his taste in women."

"Stacey—"

"I'm not judging you." Stacey held up a hand. "I'm just saying—be careful. Victor Castellano isn't Marcus Webb. He's not going to be impressed by a smile and a signed form. He's going to want more."

Jessie thought of Victor's hand on her hip, the press of his chest against her back, the way he'd held her gaze when he'd said bring a swimsuit. "I know."

"Do you?" Stacey leaned forward. "Because I've seen what happens to girls like us in this city. We come here thinking we're going to make something of ourselves, and the next thing we know, we're trading one kind of survival for another."

"I'm not trading anything."

"You're already trading, Jess. You just don't see it yet."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and unwelcome. Jessie wanted to argue, to tell Stacey she was wrong, that this was different—that she was different. But the argument died in her throat, because some part of her, the part that had let Victor adjust her stance and had felt his hand on her hip and hadn't pulled away, knew Stacey wasn't entirely wrong.

"I'm not going to let anything happen to me," Jessie said quietly.

Stacey studied her for a long moment, then picked up her wine glass. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay, I believe you." Stacey took a sip. "But if you need me—if anything ever feels wrong—you use the code. You hear me?"

Jessie nodded. "I hear you."

They finished dinner in a silence that wasn't quite comfortable, and Jessie helped with the dishes, her hands moving on autopilot while her mind drifted back to the golf course. To Victor's voice at her ear. To the way he'd said pleasure, like it was a word he'd been saving for the right moment.

Later, in her room, she opened her closet and stared at the clothes hanging there. Modest blouses. Cardigans. Skirts that fell past her knees. Nothing that belonged on a yacht.

She needed a swimsuit.

The thought sent a flush through her, hot and unsettling. She pushed the closet door closed and sat on the edge of her bed, the springs creaking under her weight. Saturday. Four o'clock. A forty-eight-foot Beneteau on Lake Mead.

She reached for her phone, scrolled through her contacts, and stopped at a number she'd never used. Stacey's voice echoed in her head—if anything ever feels wrong—but she pushed it aside and typed a message to the one person who might understand.

I said yes to the yacht. Saturday at four.

She stared at the message for a long moment, her thumb hovering over send. Then she hit send before she could change her mind.

Steve's reply came three minutes later.

Good girl. I knew you would. We'll talk before Saturday. Dress for the part.

She set the phone face-down on the nightstand and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The ceiling was white and unremarkable, the same ceiling she'd stared at a hundred nights since moving here. But tonight, it felt different. Like the room was smaller. Like the walls were closing in.

Or maybe it was just her, growing too big for the space she'd built for herself.

She closed her eyes and saw Victor's face, the sun behind him, his voice low at her ear: I want to seal this deal on my yacht.

She didn't know what she was becoming.

But she was starting to want to find out.