The air in the speakeasy is thick with smoke and the scent of cheap perfume, the low hum of conversation swirling between the jazz notes spilling from a battered old piano in the corner. It’s the kind of place Dutch would sneer at—too crass, too desperate, too full of people with nothing left to lose. Maybe that’s why Molly finds herself here, draped in lace and bourbon, drowning in the warmth of whiskey and reckless decisions.

She’s been nothing but a ghost in his eyes for weeks now, a shadow trailing behind him as he spins grand plans and sweet words for everyone but her. Molly O’Shea, his pretty thing, his delicate girl—left to wilt like an afterthought.

Well, to hell with that.

She sits at the bar, fingers curled around a half-empty glass, her lips painted a shade too red for a woman meant to wait in silence. And then she sees her.

A vision in lace, silky hair tumbling over bare shoulders, eyes bright with mischief and something else—something dangerous. The kind of girl men spend fortunes on just to feel important for a night. She leans in close, close enough for Molly to catch the soft drawl of her voice, the sickly sweet scent of vanilla and tobacco clinging to her skin.

She doesn’t think of Dutch when she presses a wad of stolen cash into the girl’s waiting palm. She doesn’t think of him when soft hands trace the organza of her dress, when lips press warm against the curve of her throat. Molly doesn’t ask her real name, and the girl doesn’t offer it. Doesn’t need to.

For the first time in weeks, maybe months, she’s not thinking of him at all.