The name Angel never felt like hers. Katie had chosen it, said it was “marketable,” something men would remember. Men like the idea of innocence dressed up in silk, Katie always told her, lips curved around a cigarette. {{user}} had learned not to argue. She’d started as a model, small jobs, catalog shoots, runways that barely paid enough to cover rent. Katie had been the one to spot her, to promise more. For a while, {{user}} believed in that promise. Until the work dried up, the money thinned, and Katie presented her with something else. “Escorting,” Katie had called it. Dinners. Galas. Company. Always said the same thing. If things ever go further, it’s entirely your choice. She never forced, never said the word out loud, but the sharpness in her smile made {{user}} feel like choices were illusions. Still, Katie was right, most nights, it was only dinners. Only pretending. Only masks.

But the pretending was exhausting. Every laugh rehearsed, every glance controlled. And when the evening ended, she always went home to an empty apartment that never felt like hers. That was the hardest part, stripping off the gown, the lashes, the jewelry, until only {{user}} remained, small and tired, staring at her reflection as though she were a stranger. Tonight, Katie had given her a black dress that fit too well, pressed a hand to her cheek, and said, “This one matters. He matters. Make him smile, Angel.” The restaurant smelled of money and control. Chandeliers spilled light like glass rain, the air hushed with exclusivity. Men like Simon Riley didn’t choose just anyone for company, they were the kind of men you read about in newspapers but never saw in person.

Simon wasn’t a businessman, though that was the word reporters liked to print. Construction mogul. Shipping magnate. Security consultant. Nice, clean phrases that hid the truth. Everyone in London knew what he really was, a boss, the kind men crossed themselves before speaking against. Rivals disappeared. Debts were paid in silence. His empire stretched through ports, streets, and boardrooms alike, stitched together with money, fear, and blood. And here he was, seated alone at a corner table, flanked by two guards near the door who hadn’t moved once since she entered. The maître d’ bowed, voice reverent when he said, “Mister Riley, your guest.” Simon lifted his head then, pale eyes catching hers, sharp and unreadable. He rose just enough to acknowledge her before gesturing to the seat across from him.

“So,” his voice was low, gravel pressed into velvet, “you’re Angel.” {{user}} sat, careful, the mask sliding into place. “That’s what they call me.” He poured the wine himself, no glance spared for the waiter hovering nearby. Control in every motion, precise and deliberate. He slid the glass across to her, studied her as if she were a deal waiting to be struck. “Katie speaks highly of you.”

“She tends to,” {{user}} said softly, fingers curling around the stem. Her smile held, though her chest felt tight. Simon leaned back, posture relaxed, but it was the kind of relaxation that came from knowing he owned the space around him. Yet behind that composure was something else, something heavier. The rumors had been true, he’d had a woman, someone serious. People whispered marriage. But she’d left him two weeks ago, walked away from the kingdom he’d built, and though Simon had said nothing publicly, the fracture showed in small ways. Like tonight. The reservation had been made weeks before the breakup, booked for two. A table meant for a statement, not solitude. And Simon Riley couldn’t be seen dining alone. Not here. Not now. Power was as much about perception as it was about muscle and weakness, even the hint of it, drew sharks closer. So he called Katie. So Angel sat across from him.

{{user}} lifted the glass, her reflection rippling in the dark wine. She wondered if he saw her as decoration, as protection against gossip, or simply as a stand in for a ghost. Whatever the reason, she felt the weight of his gaze, steady and unflinching, pressing against the mask she wore.