*Wrap an old man around her little finger?*
The manager's ears perked up, a spark of pure gossip in his eyes. He was dying to know which billionaire patriarch Debbie was targeting, but he knew better than to ask.
Debbie waited in the private lounge. When the door opened, she evaluated the woman walking toward her.
Vesper was exactly as promised—young, radiant, and dripping with seductive confidence. From the way she carried herself, she was clearly a top-earner in her industry, used to servicing the ultra-wealthy. Booking her for a private hit wouldn't come cheap.
Debbie was immensely satisfied.
She knew Old Mr. Blake wouldn't easily succumb to temptation. He was fiercely loyal to the Blake matriarch. The woman had him locked down tightly, combining childhood affection with a rock-solid corporate alliance. Even in his youth, he hadn't spared Debbie a second glance.
Throwing a gorgeous twenty-something at him now probably wouldn't crack his stoic armor either. He fancied himself a man of unwavering virtue.
But seduction wasn't the play here.
Debbie didn't care if Old Mr. Blake was a saint. Vesper was just the bait for the trap.
Truthfully, Debbie held no lingering affection for the man who had rejected her. She had loved him once, hopelessly and naively, but reality had slapped the romance out of her decades ago. She had long since made peace with the fact that he would never love someone like her.
More importantly, she loved money far more than she could ever love a man.
Looking at Vesper, Debbie gave a slow, approving nod.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-four."

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