A Helping Hand (AJS Roleplaying x Kita-san)

[AJS Roleplaying]

A HELPING HAND A Roleplay Brought to You By: ​

Adrian Wolfe written by AJS Roleplaying ​

Delilah (Lilah) Hayward written by Kita-san ​

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[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian Wolfe stood at the top of the world - literally and metaphorically. The floor-to-ceiling windows of his Manhattan penthouse office framed the city like a painting: vast, glittering, obedient. The skyline bowed to him, or so it seemed on mornings like this, when the air was crisp with possibility and no one had yet dared to waste his time.

The clock read 5:42 a.m. Most of New York was still asleep. Adrian had already finished ten rounds in the ring, a cold shower, and an espresso made precisely the way he liked it—no sugar, no milk, just the bitterness he preferred to start his day with. On his desk, two acquisition contracts waited for signature. Another biotech startup. A failing European resort chain. Neither would survive the month without Wolfe Global Holdings swallowing them whole. He hadn't decided yet if he'd sign them today. He liked to let things sweat a little.

His assistant wouldn't arrive for another hour, but the space was already immaculate. Everything in the penthouse office had been curated: from the rare Loro Piana wool rugs underfoot to the abstract triptych behind his desk, whose colours shifted with the light like oil on water. The air smelled faintly of leather and cedar - custom, of course - and Adrian, standing in his tailored slate-grey suit, looked like the centrepiece of a private museum. Cold. Imposing. Untouchable.

Exactly the way he liked it.

He sank into the chair that had cost more than most people's annual salary and opened the journal he kept hidden beneath a false bottom drawer. No one knew it existed. Not his assistant. Not his board. Certainly not the press, who would've salivated to know that the "Ice King" scrawled quotes from Rilke and Proust in looping script between silent thoughts.

The price of freedom is isolation. He underlined it once.

Control was everything. It had gotten him here - out of the concrete corners of Boston's forgotten neighbourhoods and into the upper sanctum of global power. He had learned early that people wanted things: comfort, approval, love. Wanting made them pliable. Needing made them weak. And Adrian Wolfe had sworn, a long time ago, to never be either.

He closed the journal, locking the idea away.

His phone buzzed.

It wasn't a call. Adrian didn't take unscheduled calls. It was a calendar alert - some mandatory black-tie fundraiser later that evening, hosted by one of the city's old-money foundations. He'd already written the check; his presence was a formality. He was expected to smile, to pose for a few photos beside society's glossier darlings, to give some pre-approved soundbite about sustainability or urban housing equity. The usual theatre. The usual applause.

He would go, of course. The public loved the version of him they could applaud from a distance - polished, philanthropic, charming. Just accessible enough to sell headlines, just aloof enough to remain a fantasy. That was the brand. That was the performance. He'd perfected it.

Still, something about the whole affair sat uneasily in his chest. Lately, everything did. His empire was thriving. His calendar was full. His bed, often, was not. He had lovers, yes. Faces that blurred together: expensive perfume, effortless beauty, empty mornings. They wanted things from him - gifts, status, attention. None of them had touched him in any real way. None of them could. He didn't let them. Not because he couldn't. Because if he did, they might see what was underneath. And he wasn't entirely sure what that was anymore.

Adrian stood again, restlessly. Walked toward the windows. The city had begun to stir, faint pulses of motion twenty floors below. Cars crawling. Lights flickering. A living organism he could no longer feel part of, only observe. And sometimes - on mornings like this, when the silence stretched too long and the view felt more like a cage than a reward - Adrian wondered if he'd built a kingdom only to rule it alone.

He would never say it aloud, not even to himself. But something in him was waiting. Not for a scandal. Not for a rival. Not even for a fall. For something he didn't yet have a name for.

Not that he believed in fate. Or serendipity. Or the kind of romantic nonsense he'd seen ruin people. He believed in leverage. In returns. In risk with a calculable reward. Love, in his view, was always a transaction - and one where the fine print often led to ruin.

Still, there were nights when the silence was louder than the applause. Mornings when the shadows in his penthouse stretched longer than they should. And somewhere, behind all the steel and symmetry, something in Adrian Wolfe was quietly, inexorably cracking.​

 

[Kita-san]

The floorboards groaned beneath her bare feet as Delilah padded down the narrow hallway, a trail of chill following her through the old house like a shadow that hadn't slept. The walls, yellowed with time and peeling in places, whispered with memory. It was still dark outside—just before six—but the creaks and sighs of the house made it feel like someone else was already up. Maybe the house was just tired of being quiet.

She tied her robe tighter around her waist and glanced into her mother's room. Empty. Again. “Dammit mother…3 days in a row.” She muttered as she rolled her eyes. This wasn’t something new, her mother had left and went on her little binges but every single time Delilah worried if she would even return. The bed hadn't been slept in. Just a crumpled blanket and the stale scent of cheap wine lingering in the air like shame. Delilah didn't linger. She couldn't—not this morning. Not when her stomach was already tight with worry and her shift at the fundraiser loomed. Not when she had a full day of classes ahead: Intro to Culinary Science at ten, Small Business Planning right after.

She flicked on the light in the tiny kitchen and winced. Another bill. Water this time, slipped under the door sometime in the night. Delilah shoved it under the fruit bowl, which had nothing but an onion in it. She'd deal with it later.

She moved on autopilot—oatmeal on the stove, a quick shower, dress for school. While on the bathroom she wiped the steam from the small mirror above the sink. Her reflection looked tired this morning. The 23 year old had shadows beneath her eyes that she knew would disappear once she went about her day and had some coffee.

After finishing her usual post-shower routine, she dressed quickly, wasting no time. She slipped into a cropped band tee, its faded graphic hinting at years of love and rebellion, and paired it with dark grey skinny jeans that hugged her frame like armor. On her feet, she laced up a pair of black combat boots with thick, chunky heels—scuffed at the toes, dependable as ever, and just heavy enough to remind the world she didn't plan on being walked over. Her natural curls were pulled back into a bun and out of her face.

Delilah didn’t stress too much about makeup. The girl was naturally beautiful and she knew that tonight she would need to use it. She stared at herself a moment longer.

"You're okay," she murmured. "You've got this." She always did. Or at least, she made it look that way.

Her chef's coat hung on the peg by the door, still smelling faintly of garlic and smoked paprika. She folded it carefully into her backpack alongside her knife roll, a used laptop, and a bus pass she prayed still had credit. Her chocolate brown eyes caught sight of the black dress she would wear tonight. It hung gracefully on the front of her closet door.

All of her outfits had to be approved by her manager if she wasn’t given one to wear by the man. The dress code was very strict. Even more so for tonight’s event. The fundraiser was important, she bar tending tonight and the pay was going to be great. It also came with tips and, more importantly, visibility. These events were full of money. Sometimes, if you were sharp and pretty and poured with a smile, you would definitely make a large sum of money.

Delilah had learned early how to read people. She knew how to keep her chin up, how to pretend she wasn't watching the door for her mother. How to smile when she wanted to scream. She'd had to grow up fast. No choice in that.

But she had plans.

The culinary school and business classes were practical. Someday, she'd open her own place: a beautiful fine dining experience. With the best produce, nothing would go to waste. Maybe in Brooklyn, if she could afford the rent. Maybe somewhere quieter, where the air didn't feel so heavy with old money and newer regrets.

She texted her mother again. You okay? Can you please let me know you're safe? I have class. I love you.

She could stress about her mother anymore. She needed to focus. The world was already awake. As she walked to the buss stop she heard it in the shouts from the corner store down the block, in the rumble of the subway beneath her feet. Somewhere, people moved through life like it owed them something.

But Delilah had never been owed a thing. She was going to earn it anyway.

With a deep breath, she adjusted her backpack and zipped up her light jacket as she walked. The morning air brushing against her face and running through the loose strands of her hair.

There was no crown on her head, no armor on her shoulders, just grit in her spine and a fire in her gut. Tonight, she'd stand behind the bar of a glittering event full of glass chandeliers and tailored suits, pouring drinks for people who wouldn't remember her name.

But one day—one day—they would.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian arrived at the address listed on the invitation, a location that practically oozed curated exclusivity. The event was set in one of those newly renovated downtown bars - modernist, ostentatious, and drenched in aesthetic ambition. There was far too much glass: floor-to-ceiling windows, gleaming doors that looked like museum installations, mirrored surfaces inside reflecting everything and nothing at once. The whole place screamed look at me, which was ironic considering the invitation had insisted on discretion.

He stepped out of the sleek black car that had brought him, thanking the driver with a quiet nod. But any hope for a low-key arrival was immediately obliterated by the blinding staccato of camera flashes and the electric buzz of voices shouting his name. Press. Photographers. Social media personalities. Every one of them was clamouring for a slice of content. Discreet? Not even remotely.

Adrian didn't bother responding to any of the shouted questions - most of them were bait anyway, intended to stir scandal or capture a misstep. He walked briskly through the line of flashing lights and smartphones, his tailored jacket catching the subtle glow of the venue's entrance lighting. If nothing else, the chaos reminded him that in his world, even silence had weight. Saying nothing was its own kind of headline.

Inside, the atmosphere shifted. The noise outside melted into a curated playlist of ambient lounge music and the dull murmur of conversations measured in calculated decibels. It was cooler, dimmer, and imbued with that peculiar scent of wealth - expensive perfume, polished wood, and champagne. His eyes swept the room, noting familiar faces: actors in various stages of relevance, startup founders with PR-polished egos, politicians who pretended not to recognize him, and influencers orbiting in their own digital solar systems.

One of them made a beeline toward him almost instantly. She was young, attractive in the surgically optimized way that Instagram now passed off as authenticity, and wore a dress that had likely never touched a hanger. Her smile was perfect, her posture practiced. She spoke to him with the rehearsed casualness of someone who had spent hours crafting this exact interaction in her head. She was looking for a moment - a snapshot, a clip, a name-drop in a caption that would convert followers into status.

He obliged, of course. A brief smile for the camera. A pose that suggested familiarity but not interest. The kind of image that made him seem approachable without offering anything real. He had become an expert in that particular brand of social gymnastics - knowing when to engage, when to deflect, and how to fade out of a conversation without appearing rude.

Adrian made his way to the bar, finally. He welcomed the solitude, even if only for a moment. The bar itself was a stunning piece of craftsmanship, a long sweep of dark mahogany with polished brass accents. He placed his hands on its smooth surface, feeling the cool, solid grain beneath his fingertips. It grounded him in a way that nothing else in the room did. He was about to signal the bartender when his gaze settled on her.

She wasn't like the others. That much was immediately apparent. There was no desperate performance, no curated expression begging for recognition. She was working, sure - moving with the kind of practiced rhythm that came from repetition, from long hours and little patience for nonsense. But her eyes met his with a quiet steadiness that threw him. There was something in them. A gravity. A knowing. It unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

For a fleeting moment, it was as though the noise of the event - the artifice, the networking, the constant game of presentation - fell away. Her gaze didn't ask anything of him, didn't seek a reaction or a photo op. It simply saw him. And that, more than anything else, shook his internal bearings.

He straightened, brushing the moment aside like an intrusive thought. He requested a neat brandy, his voice low and even. Naturally, the house selection was something extravagant: a thirty-year-old Cognac that would be older than half the partygoers if not for the guest list's obsession with legacy names and seasoned power players. It slid into a crystal tumbler like liquid gold, catching the low light with a warm glow. He took a slow sip, letting it settle on his tongue before swallowing.

The warmth bloomed in his chest, but his mind was already elsewhere. Something about that look lingered with him - like a sentence half-spoken or a melody you only catch once but can't forget. The rest of the room blurred into background noise. Familiar conversations. The sound of laughter that didn't quite reach the eyes. People pretending not to watch each other while calculating who was worth watching.

Adrian was used to rooms like this. Rooms full of masks and ambition, of people hunting something - status, validation, a momentary rush of attention that could be leveraged into something else. He was not unfamiliar with that game. In fact, he had once played it better than most.

But tonight, something was different. And it started with a pair of eyes behind the bar that had no intention of playing.​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah had seen his type before—rich, sculpted, carved in hard angles and harder silences. But this man didn't reek of wealth the way so many here did. There was no flash, no brand-name performance. It wasn't money he wore like armor. It was power. Quiet, calculated, bone-deep power.

She didn't know his name. She didn't need to. The room had already responded to him like it knew it.

Still, she kept her head down, her hands moving with mechanical precision—two ounces of gin, a squeeze of lemon, a dash of simple syrup. Her station was immaculate, the way she liked it. Tidy bottles of bitters. Copper shakers lined like soldiers. Every citrus peel curled with intention. She didn't falter, but she felt something shift inside her. Something tighter. More alert.

Then he turned to the bar.

And looked at her.

It wasn't a glance. It was contact. Eye to eye. Like he'd peeled through the noise of the room and found her waiting in it.

Delilah held that gaze, not because she wanted to, but because something in her wouldn't let her look away. There was no hunger in his eyes—none of the greasy interest she was used to from Wall Street boys on their third drink. This was something colder. Not cruel, but precise. A kind of quiet study. Like he wasn't trying to consume her, but understand her. And somehow, that was more unsettling.

She finished the pour she'd been working on and wiped her hands on a bar towel, slow and deliberate. Her body was taut beneath the black dress the event had required her to wear—low neckline, fitted waist, a slit that made moving feel like walking a balance beam. She hated how it made her feel visible for all the wrong reasons. Vulnerability wasn't a state Delilah allowed herself to linger in. It felt foreign, like a coat two sizes too small—unfamiliar and constricting. Still, the sleek black dress she wore offered a strange kind of armor. Tight in the bodice, cinched at the waist, and slit high enough to suggest allure without permission, it turned her into something curated. Palatable. A polished image meant for dim lighting and passing glances. People didn't see her in it, not really. They saw the silhouette. The aesthetic. The role. And that suited her just fine.

Or at least, it used to.

Tonight, there was no hiding the girl behind the bar. Even before she'd finished setting up the first row of glasses, whispers had started. She'd caught them in the subtle shifts of conversation, in the way eyes moved when they thought she wasn't watching. The pretty bartender. The raven-haired one with lips like dusty pink rose petals and those rich, unreadable chocolate eyes. Some men ogled. Others speculated. A few just watched—quiet, assessing, as if she were an invitation that hadn't yet been written.

But Delilah was used to being noticed without being known. She didn't let it rattle her. Her posture remained strong, movements smooth and measured. She poured, shook, stirred, and served with quiet grace, the kind born of repetition and necessity. Her expression never wavered, her head held high—because weakness, even in a smile too wide or a voice too soft, was something the world too often punished.

When he approached the bar, she felt it first in the air—like the room itself took a breath. His presence wasn't loud, yet it unsettled the atmosphere around him with magnetic force. She didn't flinch. Didn't stumble. Just watched him with the same calm she offered any stranger… though something in her pulse betrayed the truth: this one wasn't like the others.

He ordered his drink—simple, refined. Neat brandy, aged and unapologetic. She wasn't surprised by the choice. Somehow it felt inevitable. She poured it with precision, letting the deep amber liquid catch the low bar lights like molten bronze, and set it before him in a heavy crystal tumbler.

There wasn't much exchanged between them. No lingering smiles. No casual flirtation. But still… something passed between their eyes. A flicker. A knowing. His gaze wasn't invasive, but it landed, sharp and deliberate, and for a split second Delilah felt as though she'd been peeled back like a page in a book someone had waited too long to read.

She took a step back, giving him space, but her eyes remained trained on him from beneath dark lashes. Not in invitation—but in awareness. In this job, attention to detail was everything. It never hurt to ask, never hurt to offer a second moment of service. Some called it hospitality. She called it survival.

She leaned in slightly, just enough for her voice to reach him over the low hum of conversation and the clink of ice in glasses.

"Is there anything else I can get you, sir?"

Her tone was even, smooth—like dark velvet pulled taught over silk. Clear, calm, and deliberately professional. She didn't bat her lashes or tilt her smile. There was no seduction in her question. Only a simple, practiced grace.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian didn't answer right away. He let the moment stretch between them, holding her gaze longer than was necessary, or perhaps longer than was polite. Her question - simple on the surface, the kind of thing you'd expect from someone in her line of work - carried a strange weight, as though she had folded something unspoken into it. Do you need anything else? Want anything else? Standard fare. A line polished by repetition, made smooth by hours poured into slow Tuesday nights and crowded Friday rushes. And yet, there had been a tone beneath it, a subtle inflection that caught his attention.

He'd heard that kind of layered delivery before. He'd used it before - many times. During negotiations. During arguments. During those strange, liminal moments with someone you weren't quite sure you could trust, or someone you knew too well and were trying to keep at a distance. The spoken and the unspoken running in parallel, never quite meeting, but both loud in their own ways.

There was a trace of something in her voice that tugged at him - not flirtation, not exactly - but something gently probing, like the cautious way someone might test the edge of a cracked window before pushing it open. Curiosity, perhaps. Recognition. A moment of honesty poking through a script that she likely recited dozens of times a night.

It unsettled him. Or maybe unsettled wasn't the right word. It intrigued him, and intrigue had always been a dangerous slope for Adrian. Because once he started wondering about someone, once his mind began peeling back layers, it rarely stopped. He had an instinct for observing people - not just what they did, but why they did it. Patterns, hesitations, word choices, body language, even silence. Especially silence. All of it fed into a quiet but persistent compulsion to understand people. And this woman - Delilah, her name tag said - was beginning to fascinate him in ways he hadn't anticipated.

She was poised and efficient, sure. Polished in the way you'd expect someone to be in a well-run establishment like this. But beneath that practiced professionalism, he could see glimpses of something deeper, something incongruent. Her eyes didn't belong to someone resigned to serving drinks and listening to other people's half-drunken monologues. There was a gravity there. Something thoughtful. Something watchful. She moved like someone who had made peace with being underestimated.

Adrian's mind, always quick to latch onto inconsistencies, couldn't help but ask the question: What's a woman like her doing behind a bar like this?

It wasn't that he looked down on bartending - far from it. He'd known a few people who made a life behind the counter, people who loved the rhythm of it, the transient intimacy, the soft authority it afforded them over the chaos of other people's nights. But Delilah didn't strike him as someone who was at home here. She was in control, yes. She was competent. But comfortable? No. Not quite. She seemed like someone playing a role, one she'd mastered out of necessity rather than desire.

She was meant for more. He couldn't explain how he knew that. Maybe it was the way she listened when others spoke, or the flicker of something restrained in her expression when she thought no one was watching. Maybe it was just intuition. But it was there - undeniable, inescapable. And it left him vaguely irritated, not at her, but at the circumstance. At the fact that someone with that kind of presence was pouring drinks for men who wouldn't notice anything past her smile and the line of her jaw.

Still, that was a line of thought for another time. He wasn't here to dissect strangers or rescue anyone. He'd come for a drink. Some quiet. Maybe to be anonymous for a few minutes. And yet, here he was, building profiles in his head again.

He looked at her for another beat, a small, thoughtful smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. Then, deliberately choosing something that hovered just between teasing and curious, he offered an answer to her question - not direct, not serious, but not flippant either.

"You got a secret exit out of there back there?"

The words came out light, the tone intentionally ambiguous. The kind of thing that could be mistaken for a joke or something more, depending on how she wanted to hear it. He watched her closely, more interested in her reaction than in the answer itself. Would she smile? Roll her eyes? Deflect? Engage?

He wasn't trying to be clever - well, maybe a little - but mostly, he wanted to disrupt the script. To say something she wouldn't have anticipated. To see if the hint of something he'd heard in her voice was real, or if he'd just imagined it.

He had a feeling he hadn't. And that, perhaps, was what made Delilah suddenly so much more interesting than just another face across the bar.​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah caught the flicker of his smile—the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes but hinted at something deeper, as if the corners of his mouth knew secrets the rest of his face refused to tell. It wasn't the smile of a man trying to flirt, not really. It was quieter than that. More calculated. Like he was testing her for something. A reaction. A tell.

His words hung in the air between them like incense smoke—You got a secret exit out of there back there?

Not a line. Not a request. A question meant to feel like a joke, but wrapped around something softer. Or maybe sharper. She couldn't quite decide.

Delilah blinked once, slowly, not because she was surprised, but because it gave her time to decide how she wanted to respond. She didn't flinch. Didn't smirk. Instead, she let the silence stretch just a second longer than most people would. She'd learned that pauses, when used right, could be just as powerful as words.

Her hand smoothed down the edge of a bar towel she didn't need to use. The material was warm from her palm, damp at the corners. Beneath the counter, her knees ached slightly from standing all evening in boots with just a bit too much heel, but her stance didn't waver. She straightened her spine, tucked a lock of raven-dark hair behind her ear, and leaned forward by a breath—just enough to close a sliver of the distance between them.

"Wouldn't be much of a secret if I told you now, would it?" she said, voice low and dry, but laced with a trace of warmth. Her tone was velvet-lined steel—firm, measured, and impossible to read without permission.

She watched his face carefully. Not openly staring, but observing—cataloguing the way his eyes tracked her movement, how he watched her mouth more than her body. He wasn't like the others who'd whispered and gawked all evening. He wasn't trying to devour her with his gaze. He was trying to understand her. That unnerved her more.

It was always easier to handle the leering ones.

She stood straight again, reaching for a fresh glass without breaking eye contact. The motion was smooth, effortless—like muscle memory, though her skin prickled slightly under the attention. She poured a measured line of water into the tumbler, no rush in her movements, then placed it beside his brandy with an elegant slide.

"You look like a man who doesn't use exits unless he makes them," she added after a beat, her lips pulling into something that might have been a smile. But not quite.

Inside, her thoughts were less composed. Her pulse ticked faster, not from fear, but something more volatile—curiosity edged with caution. There was something dangerous about a man like him. Not the kind of danger that threw punches, but the kind that broke things without making a sound. The kind that looked at you like he already knew which part of you would hurt the most if he walked away.

But she didn't look away. Delilah never did. He intrigued her. And that was dangerous too.
So she offered him the only thing she could in this moment: a sliver of her attention, tightly controlled.

"If you find a secret door," she added, quieter this time, eyes still locked on his, "let me know where it leads."

Then, just like that, she turned—cool, composed, collected—and moved down the bar to tend to another guest, her silhouette lit by the soft golden glow of backlight. But her thoughts stayed tangled around the man with the brandy and the impossible question.

She didn't know what he was after. But for the first time all night, she wanted to know what she might be willing to give.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

"You look like a man who doesn't use exits unless he makes them."

Adrian hadn't expected that. It caught him off guard - not enough to show it, of course, but enough to register as a subtle shift behind his eyes, like a fault line cracking beneath calm terrain. The words were unusual, more loaded than he could immediately unpack. They hung in the air, equal parts observation and challenge. He didn't flinch, didn't blink. Just watched her, carefully, as though the tilt of her mouth or the flick of her gaze might offer some additional clue. But she gave him nothing.

She looked young - no older than twenty-five, he guessed - but there was something in her that didn't belong to youth. Something sharp-edged, restrained, as though her soul had already been tempered in a fire most people never get close enough to feel. The mental poise she held, that composure, didn't come from textbooks or lectures or the indulgent flattery that often got thrown at pretty women in their twenties. No, this was something harder won. It wasn't bravado either - he could smell that a mile off. This was real grit, the kind you earned crawling through a life that took more than it gave.

Turmoil, he thought. She's been through something. Maybe more than one something. He recognized it only because he knew the taste of it himself. Trauma, when buried long enough, tends to manifest like steel beneath silk. People wear it differently, but it's always there if you know how to look.

Then came her second line: "If you find a secret door, let me know where it leads." Delivered casually, almost like a throwaway. And then she turned and walked away.

Logically, he knew why. She had other customers to serve. It was a bar, not a confessional. Still, the sheer ease with which she exited the moment - leaving him standing there with that echo in his mind - was something he wasn't used to. People didn't usually walk away from him mid-sentence. Not women, and especially not women who'd just sparked his interest like that. He was accustomed to commanding rooms, drawing attention, holding it. But she had walked away without fanfare, without invitation. Without caring what impression she left behind.

He lingered a moment longer than he intended to, then turned and drifted back into the crowd. The event was the usual sort: industry people, whispered partnerships, the occasional overly enthusiastic handshake. He made conversation with the tolerable few, sipped from a tumbler he didn't particularly enjoy, and nodded politely when expected. But his mind wasn't in it. The exchange at the bar had lodged itself somewhere behind his thoughts, pressing inward like a sliver of glass. It wasn't just what she'd said - it was the way she'd said it. The kind of remark that only people who understood confinement could make. People who knew how it felt to stare at walls that didn't have doors. People who had considered digging their way out with nothing but fingernails if they had to.

Eventually, he found himself back at the bar. Unintentionally. Or maybe not. The crowd had thinned out, and the noise had settled into a dull hum. He could see her tidying up her station, moving with a calm economy that only deepened his intrigue. No flourish, no need to perform. Just silent preparation for the end of her shift. There was something magnetic about that solitude. She didn't seem like someone who needed company, and that made him want to know what kind she chose - if she chose it at all.

He reached into his jacket and retrieved a business card. Normally, he reserved them for strategic meetings or networking opportunities, the kind of calculated exchanges where something was to be gained. But this wasn't that. She had nothing he needed, at least not in any business sense. He just wanted to leave a breadcrumb. A reason. An invitation, even if it never got accepted.

He slid the card across the bar, subtle but deliberate, just far enough that it would catch her eye eventually. He didn't wait for acknowledgment. Didn't try to make her pick it up in front of him. That would've broken the energy between them, and he didn't want to force it. He just left it there, along with a line he always told himself he'd stop using:

"Should you ever want to find an escape door yourself, there's one at the end of the phone number."

God, it was corny. He knew it. He gave her one last look before he turned to leave—brief, but not rushed. Her eyes, unreadable as ever, still managed to hold him for that final second. Like gravity from a distant star: subtle, but impossible to ignore.

Then he walked away. Past the thinning crowd, down a back corridor where the noise faded. He sent a quick message to his driver, instructing him to meet at the rear exit. The irony wasn't lost on him. Some exits you build. Others, you just recognize when you see them.​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah saw the card before it even stopped moving.

It slid toward her like a quiet ripple across still water, as if it didn't want to be noticed—but she noticed. Of course she did. She was always watching. Not in that bright-eyed, eager kind of way that tried to catch opportunities mid-air, but in the quiet, practiced stillness of someone who knew the difference between noise and meaning.

She didn't reach for the card right away. Let it sit there for a moment, as if debating whether it was worth the trouble. With one hand, she continued wiping down the bar—slow, methodical circles that gleamed the wood to a near mirror finish. Her eyes, however, stayed trained on the card. Not with curiosity, but with calculation.

There were rules in places like this. Unspoken ones. Rules about glances and tone and when a man leaves a card without expecting anything in return. But this wasn't a transaction. Not exactly. He hadn't asked for a number. Hadn't tried to impress her with a title or resume. That would've been easier to ignore. Safer.

No, he'd dropped implication. And that was far more dangerous.

She finally picked it up with the same hand that had been cleaning, almost as if it was just another piece of stray clutter to toss. But she didn't toss it. She turned it over once, twice, noting the fine cardstock and subtle embossing. Minimalist. Clean. Expensive, but not trying too hard. She tucked it into the inside pocket of her apron—not out of interest, not yet—but because leaving it out in the open would've felt too much like accepting something unspoken. And Delilah never accepted anything she hadn't first dissected.

She glanced up toward the back of the room, just in time to catch his retreating figure. Calm, unhurried. Intentional. He wasn't looking back, but that didn't mean he wasn't aware of her eyes on him. Men like that always knew when they were being watched—especially by the women who weren't supposed to be watching.

She rolled her lips inward, pressing them together to smother the quiet smirk trying to climb out. An escape door. Cute. Maybe even clever. The kind of line a man used when he wanted to seem profound but not too serious. Something left dangling—half invitation, half riddle.

Delilah didn't trust men who offered riddles. But she did remember them.

She reached beneath the counter for a bottle of water, cracked the cap with one hand, and took a long, measured sip. Her eyes drifted to the clock. Almost done. The event was winding down, the laughter thinning, the posturing giving way to fatigue. She could already smell the perfume of aftermath—half-empty glasses, wilted garnishes, that strange loneliness that clung to a place after it's been full of people pretending they weren't alone.

Her shift would end soon, and when it did, she'd walk the three blocks to the subway station and once at her stop she would make her way to the old home she never invited anyone into. She'd peel off her clothes, run her fingers through hair still holding the scent of citrus and bourbon, and maybe—maybe—she'd look at that card again.

Not because she needed a way out. But because it's smart to know who leaves the door cracked. And even smarter to understand why.

—

The walk up the driveway to Delilah's home was quiet, a heavy kind of quiet that settled into your skin. Her keys jingled softly as she unlocked the door, pushing it open with her shoulder. The place welcomed her with the same tired breath it always did—dim lighting, and secondhand furniture. But this was her home. And that, tonight, was enough. Besides she couldn’t be too much of a Debbie downer. She had made quite a bit of tips tonight and she was paid for working the event.

She locked the door behind her out of habit—twice—then kicked off her heels and peeled off her jacket she had worn. The silence was louder here, more personal. No curated playlists. No ambient murmur of ambition. Just the low hum of the fridge and the dull creak of her floorboards as she made her way into her bedroom.

The first thing she noticed was what wasn't there. Her mother. She would have heard her snoring by now or would have been greeted with a drunken smile.

That hollow, anxious pit that usually started forming in her gut the moment she crossed the threshold didn't tighten. No wine glass left out. No half-spilled bottle on the counter. No slurred voice greeting her from the couch. Delilah didn't smile at the absence, but her shoulders dropped slightly. Not peace. Just… less chaos.

Her phone buzzed in her jacket pocket.

Mom: "I'm staying with Angie tonight. Don't wait up. Love you."

Delilah stared at the text. It was the kind of text meant to sound normal. Sober, even. But Delilah had learned long ago that it was usually the neat ones you had to be most suspicious of.

Still, she left it alone.

She moved through the motions of unwinding—bra unclasped and tossed onto a chair, dressed peeled off and draped across the bed, jacked tossed aside. She moved like someone trained in the art of self-preservation, undressing not just for comfort, but to shed the residue of too many eyes and too many words that meant nothing.

In the bathroom, she ran the water until it was steaming. Washed off the night. Let the vanilla -scented soap erase whatever lingered on her skin. When she finally stepped into her room, towel wrapped tight around her chest, hair damp and curling at the ends, she sat at the edge of the bed and reached for the small pocket of her jacket.

The business card was still there. Untouched. Crisp. She turned it over in her hands, tracing the edges with her thumb before flipping it to the front.

“Adrian Wolfe. Founder & CEO Wolfe Global Holdings.”

Simple. Impeccably designed. No flourish. No gimmicks. Just black embossed lettering on thick, matte cardstock. The kind of card that cost more to print than her rent.

She blinked slowly. Wolfe Global. Of course. The name was familiar. Too familiar. It showed up on the news sometimes, attached to mergers and billion-dollar acquisitions. Luxury developments. Disruptive tech ventures. Headlines that hinted at power being moved quietly behind the curtain. Delilah exhaled and leaned back against the headboard, card still between her fingers.

Why her?

It wasn't just the card. It was him. The way he'd watched her—not with the hunger of a man who wanted a body, but with the curiosity of someone who wanted a reaction. And yet he hadn't pressed. No number asked for. No performative charm. Just… left it there. A door with no handle.

"Should you ever want to find an escape door yourself…"

It wasn't that she didn't find it tempting. In fact, that was the problem. She'd been offered doors before. Most of them came with locks on the inside and strings disguised as keys. This one felt different—but that only made it more dangerous.

She leaned forward, placed the card on the nightstand like a question she wasn't ready to answer, and climbed beneath the covers. The sheets were cool, the hum of the fan above rhythmic and comforting. But her thoughts didn't slow. They circled, careful and quiet, around that name:

Adrian Wolfe.

She didn't know what he wanted. But she was sure of one thing. Men like him didn't leave breadcrumbs by accident. And she'd never followed a trail in her life without first checking to see where it led—or who was watching from the shadows.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian stepped back into his penthouse, the door clicking shut behind him, but his thoughts were still very much elsewhere. The city lights glowed beyond the glass walls, a familiar skyline that usually gave him a sense of control, of accomplishment. Tonight, it felt muted. Distant. As if some invisible shift had occurred that made everything slightly off-kilter. He loosened the collar of his shirt, still crisp despite the late hour, and let himself slowly absorb the quiet hum of his sanctuary. But even the silence couldn't drown out the echo of her - Delilah.

He hadn't expected her to linger in his mind. Certainly not in this way. Women came and went in his life with the ease of seasonal change - beautiful, curated distractions that knew the rules of his world. But Delilah hadn't played by any script. There was no posturing, no sycophantic performance. And yet, she had taken up residence in his mind like she belonged there. That unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

He replayed their encounter again and again, the way her gaze had met his - not just with confidence, but with something sharper beneath it. Intelligence. Purpose. A woman like her, tending bar, shouldn't have stood out. But she had. She did. Every instinct told him she wasn't really what she appeared to be, not at all. That uniform, that role - it was temporary. Functional. She wore it like armour, not identity. And somehow, he knew that. He had told himself the night before that she wasn't just a bar waitress. And the more he considered it, the more he realized he believed that with conviction.

But what kept bothering him wasn't just the mystery of her. It was the way she had made him feel. That was new. And not the kind of new he welcomed. Adrian was a man who functioned in absolutes. His world was built on order, transactions, and control. He dealt in outcomes, in margins, in assets and liabilities. Human connection, when it happened at all, was a means to a measurable end - partnerships forged on mutual benefit, alliances created for leverage. If someone couldn't serve a function in his life, they were dismissed without hesitation. It wasn't cruelty. It was efficiency.

But now—Delilah.

He couldn't explain it. Not even to himself. What exactly he wanted from her, he couldn't name. She wasn't an acquisition, not in the sense he was used to. She wasn't a project, and he wasn't trying to fix her. He just… wanted to know. More. Why? What drew her to that world, what she saw when she looked at him, how she could carry herself with such ease in a place she clearly didn't belong. Those eyes of hers, steady and unflinching, seemed to reach beyond surface impressions. They had looked at him like she could see the pieces of him he kept buried under layers of success and status. That should have made him defensive. Instead, it fascinated him.

He changed into his sleepwear mechanically, the soft cotton shirt and pants a nightly ritual. The sheets, custom-made with a thread count that most people would call indulgent, welcomed him like they always did. And like always, he barely noticed them. His bed was king-sized, vast, and cold - an empire of empty space he had grown used to. Too used to. He stared at the ceiling, watching patterns of faint light shift across the surface from the city below. Sleep rarely came easily, and tonight was no different.

When dawn finally touched the sky, washing the room in its clinical glow, Adrian was already awake. He'd showered, shaved, and dressed in a dark tailored suit that matched the sleek edge of his life. Coffee in hand, he stared out over the city from his floor-to-ceiling window, watching the traffic flow like blood through a living organism. His breakfast would be waiting for him at the office, courtesy of his assistant, a woman whose name he often forgot but whose efficiency he relied upon completely.

Today's schedule was stacked: two acquisition meetings, contract signings, follow-ups with legal, bonus assessments for his top performers, and a late dinner with a potential investor. All the pieces of the day were arranged with precision, calculated to the minute. On paper, everything looked perfect. In motion, everything would proceed exactly as expected.

And yet, as he reviewed the itinerary on his phone, his mind wandered again. Not to profit margins or merger details, but to a pair of curious, discerning eyes. To a name, Delilah, that now echoed with something more than novelty. Something that lingered.

He had no room for distractions. He told himself that more than once. But this - this wasn't distraction. It was disruption. Something had been dislodged inside him, some piece of himself that had grown too comfortable with detachment, too fluent in isolation. And for reasons he couldn't quite articulate, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to put it back.

Not yet.​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah woke before the sun, the pale gray light of morning slipping through the torn blinds in her old bedroom. Her head ached—not from sleep, but from the weight of reality settling back in the moment her eyes opened. The house was quiet, but not in the peaceful kind of way. It was the stillness of things left to rot.

A dull clatter echoed from the kitchen. The fridge opened and shut. A glass bottle rattled.
Delilah pushed herself up, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She already knew what she'd find.
When she stepped into the kitchen, her mother stood hunched in front of the open refrigerator, wearing a faded housecoat and smelling like stale perfume and leftover gin. Her brittle blonde hair was matted from sleep, or maybe from three days of vanishing into whatever bars or stranger's apartments she'd found comfort in.

"You're up early," her mother said without turning around, like this was just any other morning. Delilah leaned against the doorway, arms folded, jaw tight. "Where the hell have you been?"

Her mother finally looked over, expression blank. "Don't start. I was just out. You know how it is."

"Three days, Mom. I didn't know if you were dead."

Her mother scoffed and closed the fridge. "Please. You always act like I'm in a ditch somewhere. I can take care of myself."

"Can you?" Delilah snapped, before catching herself. Her voice was raw, angry, but under it was exhaustion—years of this routine grinding her down. "You could've at least answered your phone when I called. You texting me doesn’t give me the reassurance I need. For all I know it’s one of your drunk friends texting me for you."

Her mother waved a dismissive hand, grabbing a half-empty orange juice bottle and drinking straight from it. "I'm fine, Delilah. Calm down. Jesus. Besides," she added with a crooked smile, "I was thinking about going out tonight anyway. Get back out there, have some fun. Loosen up."

"You mean get drunk again."

"If that's what you want to call it." She walked to the counter and lit a cigarette, exhaling a long stream of smoke. "You working at Velour tonight?" Delilah blinked at her. "Why?"
"I was just thinking… you could maybe slip me a couple of drinks. The good stuff. Come on, it's not like they're gonna miss it."

Delilah felt her stomach twist. It wasn't just the request. It was the way her mother said it—like it was normal, like asking her daughter to help feed her addiction was just casual conversation.

"That's what you care about?" Delilah said quietly. "Not that I'm barely sleeping, barely making the mortgage? You just want to know if you can scam free drinks off me?"
Her mother didn't respond. Just looked at her through narrowed, hungover eyes. Delilah shook her head and turned away. She stormed off back to her bedroom to get ready for the day. She had class and other important things to worry about.

By the time Delilah arrived at her culinary class, the weight of the morning was still draped over her like a soaked coat. She moved through the motions—knife skills, sauté technique, mise en place—but her mind wasn't in the kitchen. It was on bills. Mortgage. Gas. Phone bill. Electricity…

During the break, she sat at a small table near the window, her phone in hand, credit card beside her. The sunlight didn't warm her. It only made her more aware of what she didn't have. She opened her banking app. She had enough money to cover all of the bills but didn’t have anything to cover groceries or any personal necessities or gas for her car.

She exhaled slowly, pressing her fingers against her temples. She hadn't bought herself anything in months. Not even a cheap lipstick. Nothing that didn't scream survival.
With reluctance, she opened her messages and typed out a text to Tori, one of managers at Velour. She specifically handled the bottle girl portion of the establishment.

Delilah: Hey… I am bartending tonight but I can also work the floor if you still need someone.

She hated herself as soon as she hit send.
Bottle service. Fake smiles. Men with too much money and too little respect. The way they looked at her like she was part of the decor. It felt degrading. Like every hour there chipped away at who she was trying to become. But bills didn't care about dignity. Besides this was just temporary. Delilah had goals she needed achieve and this was just a necessary step to reach them.

Her phone buzzed with a confirmation from Tori. She closed her eyes briefly, then opened her bag and pulled out a small business card.

“Adrian Wolfe. Founder & CEO, Wolfe & Thorne Capital.”

The card was heavy in her fingers, thick and expensive. She wasn’t sure why she was still carrying it, flipping it over in her hand like it held answers she couldn't read. Adrian Wolfe. Smooth. Calculated. The kind of rich that didn't need to speak it—everything about him said legacy, power, control. And yet… he'd given her this card so that she could contact him. He hadn't hit on her. Not really. No innuendos. Just a calm offer to “talk”….at least that’s what she assumed he wanted. And that was what unsettled her the most.

If he wanted sex, she figured he'd have said it, even bluntly. Men like him didn't need to be subtle. But what did he want from someone like her? She had no pedigree, no status, no business even being in the same room as him. Yet something in his eyes had said you have something I want. And that scared her more than if he'd said nothing at all.

Delilah stared at the number on the card.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she grabbed her phone and dialed.

It rang.

Once.

Twice.

Straight to voicemail

"You've reached Adrian Wolfe. Leave a message."

Her heart thumped in her chest, but she didn't hang up. Instead, she leaned forward, her elbow on the table, and let the words come naturally—flat and honest.

"Hey. It's Delilah. From the event last night. I was the bartender. You gave me your card."
She paused for just a beat, eyes unfocused as she stared at the peeling laminate on the table. "I'm not really into mystery offers or whatever this is, but I'm calling because I figured if I didn't do it now, I never would."
Her tone sharpened—still tired, but resolute.
"Look… I don't know what you want from me, and I don't have time to guess.” She exhaled and tucked a few strands of hair behind her left ear. "So just let me know what’s going here if you decide to call back. I'm working tonight at Velour. If you call after 8 p.m., I won't pick up.” Another pause. One she didn't know how to fill. "…Yeah. That's it then. Later.” She ended the call and set the phone down like it was heavier than before.

Delilah felt extremely embarrassed. She had no idea what to say on the phone. With a slight groan of defeat she stood up and went on with her day. She had to prepare for work this evening.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian sat in the back of the car, the city drifting past the tinted windows in a blur of steel, glass, and motion. He was being ferried across town to yet another meeting, one of several that punctuated his calendar with mechanical regularity. These brief, insulated car rides had become sacred moments of transition - liminal spaces between the demands of one room and the expectations of the next. He used the time strategically, multitasking with the cold efficiency of someone who had long ago stopped pretending that time was ever truly his own.

His fingers moved across his phone screen with well-practiced speed, thumbing replies to emails that varied from irrelevant to mildly urgent. Most were instantly deleted - product pitches, introductions he hadn't asked for, congratulatory notes from acquaintances hoping to remind him of their existence. A select few were tagged for later review, though "later" often never came. The ones that required immediate attention received curt, pointed replies. He had mastered the art of brevity without apology. If his tone came off as impatient or disinterested, well, that was simply the cost of doing business with him.

In his ears, a stream of voicemails played through his wireless earbuds, the voices blending into a low, unmemorable hum. He had learned to distinguish within seconds whether a message deserved his full attention. It was in the tone, not the content - the cadence of a voice under pressure, the breath between words, the practiced urgency of someone hoping to catch his ear. Most didn't. Most never would.

But then — her voice.

"Hey. It's Delilah."

Two seconds. That's all it took. His fingers stopped mid-sentence, suspended above the screen where a half-typed email awaited completion. He didn't look away from the phone, but he wasn't seeing it anymore. The words might as well have dissolved into nothing. Her voice had claimed his full attention.

There was a sharpness in her tone, not unkind but unmistakably honed by necessity. He could hear it beneath the surface - the fatigue, the tension, the need for control. It wasn't the sound of someone making a polite call. It was the sound of someone holding everything together by sheer force of will.

He recognized it instantly. Nearly two decades earlier, when Adrian had first carved his way into the business world, he'd worn that same tone like armour. Back then, every interaction was a transaction, every conversation a chance to secure the next opportunity. He knew what it meant to move through the world with that blend of determination and desperation. He could spot it in others now like a hunter reading tracks in the forest. And Delilah - whoever she truly was beneath the surface - was clearly carrying more than she was letting on.

There were people who hustled because it was in their blood, and others who did it because they had no choice. Some could afford to chase dreams leisurely, but others - the ones he respected - had to claw their way toward what they loved by doing the things they didn't. Adrian had always had a soft spot, not for the dreamers, but for the ones willing to bleed for the dream. It was rare to hear that in someone's voice. And when he did, he paid attention.

Later that evening, he found himself in unfamiliar territory - not geographically, but habitually. It was 8:30 p.m., and he stood at the entrance of Velour. He didn't frequent the same place two nights in a row. It wasn't a rule, exactly, but a rhythm he kept to maintain a certain distance from predictability. Predictability bred familiarity, and familiarity was something he'd long ago decided had no place in his personal routine.

But here he was. Again. The look on the hostess's face when she saw him was almost comical. A flicker of disbelief, the kind that quickly rearranged itself into polished hospitality. Shock would've been too generous a word - it was more like confusion, curiosity, and suspicion all vying for dominance. High-end places like this were trained to treat every guest like royalty, but when someone returned twice in quick succession, particularly someone like Adrian, it prompted questions they wouldn't dare voice aloud.

He was ushered into a private booth without delay, the staff moving with crisp professionalism tinged with a new attentiveness. He declined the bottle service they reminded him of - at least for now. His eyes scanned the room, not idly, but with purpose.

This wasn't about alcohol. It wasn't even about the lounge. It was about her - the voice that had rerouted his entire mental focus earlier in the day. The kind of voice you didn't forget, not because it was soft or seductive, but because it was honest. Raw. Too rare to ignore.

Velour was no stranger to beautiful women or carefully curated performances. But Adrian wasn't interested in artifice. He wasn't there for illusion. He was there for the glimpse of something real he'd caught earlier - something that cut through the static of his world like a blade. He didn't know what he expected to find. But he knew why he had returned. Some voices demand answers. Others, action. Hers, for reasons he couldn't yet articulate, demanded presence.

So he waited. And he watched.​

 

[Kita-san]

The humid buzz of a New York summer night clung to Delilah's skin as she rounded the back alley to enter the side door of Velour. Velour wasn't the kind of place you stumbled into—it was where the rich went to be seen not approached. You either belonged, or you served. Delilah belonged behind the scenes.
She paused just outside the service entrance, the low rumble of music vibrating through her ribcage. Another night pretending. Another night being looked at, not seen.

Inside the back dressing room, mirrors lined the walls like a backstage theater. Soft-glow bulbs framed every edge, throwing light on a swarm of girls in various stages of transformation—lashes on, heels strapped, lip glosses open. Perfume hung thick in the air, a layered cloud of expensive florals and synthetic sugar.

Delilah moved to her locker, hands already going through the motions. A frown formed on her face when she noticed the outfit in her locker. “Dammit Tori…” she muttered as she looked over the articles of clothing. Her outfit: a black satin corset dress with mesh cut-outs. The skirt of the dress was extremely short, it left little to the imagination. She had the choice to wear sheer thigh-highs, she decided against them. Hanging in her locker was a gold anklet with the signature "V" charm on it—Velour's signature. Tori choose gold jewelry for the girls to wear.

The outfit looked less like clothing and more like a brand of submission. Controlled sophisticated sexuality wrapped in designer packaging. Delilah hated it. But she wore it anyway. Because bills don't care about pride.

Amber, another bottle girl with a loud laugh and perfectly contoured cheekbones, leaned over from the makeup counter. "You doing floor or bar tonight?"

"Both. Double shift." Delilah tightened her corset, suppressing a sigh.

Amber whistled low. "Welcome to the hustle. You want me to take the lead on our bottle walk? New table in the VIP lounge."

"Please," Delilah said, tone flat. She wasn't here to perform. She was here to survive.

Velour's main floor was already pulsing when they stepped out. Music—dark, pulsing, sensual—poured from every direction. Velvet rope paths curved through moody lighting, and ceiling-high LED installations flickered soft gold over smoked glass tables, their surfaces already lined with crystal tumblers and untouched menus.

The bottle service tables were tucked into elevated platforms, semi-enclosed behind golden mesh curtains and custom leather banquettes. Most of the clientele were men in tailored designer suits or streetwear that cost more than rent. Models clung to elbows. Laughter was sharp. Every movement was for show.

When the bottle order came for Table 8, Amber had Delilah and the other girls gather the props. “Actually can I carry out the two bottles?” Delilah asked. She didn’t want to hold a cheesy LED sign. Amber nodded and grabbed the custom LED sign that pulsed "LEGENDARY ENERGY" in bold white. Delilah picked up two high end bottles of tequila that was purchased by the table. A spotlight followed them, soft and diffused, while sparklers hissed from the other girls’ hands.

Phones came out. Videos started. Amber twirled her hair. Delilah walked in silence beside her, lips pressed, posture perfect. She looked the part, she was a beautiful girl but she didn’t dare over do it with her smile. Her expression said: Don't touch. Don't talk. Just tip.

Table 8 exploded in cheers as they arrived. One man leaned in, low voice too close to her ear. "Damn, you should smile more. It’ll look better.” She looked at him directly, impassive. "Maybe.” Was all she said. She didn’t smile widen her smile. She turned away before he could respond and focused on pouring shots for the guests at the table.

Somewhere —in a booth deep in the back, near the smoked glass walls and lit by a halo of soft blue— Adrian Wolfe watched. Unseen by her, he sat with a drink in hand and a knowing expression, tucked behind a velvet rope and half-shadow. No fanfare. No entourage. He hadn't told her he would come.

Delilah, meanwhile, had no idea he was there.

She was too busy avoiding hands that reached, too busy dodging fake smiles and whispered innuendo. Too focused on keeping her balance in high heels while carrying three martinis to a table that wouldn't remember her name. She wasn't flirty. She wasn't charming. She was precise and she got the job done. Well actually. Which, to some men, only made her seem more elusive.

More tempting.

But the truth was simple: Delilah didn't care about any of them. She was just trying to make it through the night.