The Bond Between Us novel Chapter 918

Night fell across the city, painting everything in that soft, golden glow from street lamps. Hank and Harry had set their meeting at a cozy downtown steakhouse—the kind with checkered tablecloths, flickering candles, and the mouthwatering scent of grilling steaks wafting out the door. Jason was already there, parked out front, keeping watch from behind the wheel.

At around 7:30, Hank climbed out of a taxi, dressed in a floral dress and wobbling on a pair of three-inch heels that looked like pure torture. He shot a quick glance at Jason’s car, nervously tugged at the neckline of his blouse, and made his way—awkwardly—toward the entrance.

For the sake of the undercover gig, Hank had committed to the look: the heels, a cheap wig, even a padded bra. But he moved like a baby deer on ice, every step a new crisis.

“Try not to walk like you’ve got a cramp, man,” Jason’s voice crackled in Hank’s earbud, tucked beneath a tangle of synthetic hair.

The earpiece kept them linked, but Jason’s reminder made Hank freeze in the middle of the sidewalk—suddenly unsure of how to move at all. People strolling by couldn’t help but stare; Hank’s outfit was surprisingly convincing, but the way he walked had everyone doing a double take.

His phone buzzed—Harry texting: “Crystal, I’m a few minutes away. Traffic’s a mess.”

Hank replied, “No worries, Harry. Drive safe!”

With that, he straightened up and strode into the restaurant, faking confidence he definitely didn’t feel.

Meanwhile, pure luck had landed Anastasia and Monica at the very same steakhouse that night.

Anastasia, hoping to avoid anyone she knew, had picked a quiet booth in the corner. She was blissfully unaware of the latest scandal swirling online—Herman had made sure every trace was wiped clean. In fact, Herman tracked her every move, so knowing she was out with Monica tonight helped him breathe easier.

The two friends ordered, and Monica, always the clown, tried to cheer Anastasia up with old college stories.

Right as Monica took a big sip of her juice, Hank walked in. Monica saw him—broad-shouldered, long hair, and teetering in heels—and nearly spit her drink all over the table.

She waved, grinning. “Hank! Over here!”

Hank looked over, startled. Spotting Monica and Anastasia, he blurted, “Anastasia? What are you doing here?”—forgetting to disguise his voice, which sounded like a baritone echoing off the walls.

A few diners glanced over, confused. Hank coughed and tried again in a squeaky falsetto. “Sorry, my throat’s a little off tonight.”

Most folks politely returned to their meals.

Monica couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Hank, I never pictured you like this! Gotta say, you pull it off—almost didn’t recognize you. What did you use for, uh, the chest?” She craned her neck for a better look.

Hank pulled her aside, whispering, “How’d you know it was me? Is it that obvious?”

He was sweating—if Monica could spot him in a second, Harry would see right through the disguise.

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