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My mother met my stepfather four months after I was born. He whisked her off her feet and accepted me as if I was his own. I did the same. He was the only father I ever knew.

I quickly pulled my hand free from Dylan's and took a step back. “Where's Mrs. Graves tonight?” I asked slyly. I thought it was a good way to change the subject and remind him that I wasn't a naive little girl who didn't know who he was. I wasn't going to, and never would, fall for the playboy act of his.

“She's out of town again. Which,” Dylan said with a short pause as he erased the space I had put between us with a step of his own. “Leaves me free to roam. When the cat's away, themouse will play.” He licked his lips as his eyes ran over my body. “There's a nice little balcony upstairs, away from all this commotion and prying eyes. We should check it out. I heard there's a great view of the city.”

“I think we both know my father wouldn't approve of you hitting on me like this. You could lose your job. Is that what you want? To be jobless? Money-less? How will you ever look anyone in the face again? How will your wife finance all her trips?”

“Your father won't fire me. He needs me. Besides, what he doesn't know won't hurt him. We can be discreet. It can be our little secret.”

“I'm all set,” I said flatly.

Dylan reached out and hooked his index finger around mine. “You're too gorgeous to be all alone tonight. That dress,” he said as he bit his knuckles. “Goddamn, that dress hugs your curves perfectly.”

“Let me make this crystal clear for you. Hit on me again, and I'll call your wife. And I won't just tell her about tonight. I'll tell her about Cassie, and Gina, and Lydia. I'll tell her about every woman you screwed while she was out of town.” I gave him a stern glare, plucked my finger free, then turned and walked to the bar.

I wanted nothing to do with that man. Dylan had been making little advances at me ever since I was sixteen. And it had only gotten worse since I became legal. There was no barrier for that man. Nothing was holding him back anymore.

The galas had become a crux in my life. When I was a young girl, I loved getting all dressed up with jewelry and makeup. I would get so excited to have my hair all done up with braids and decorative clips. I never wore the same dress twice. I'd get as excited to come to a gala as if it was Christmas. I couldn't wait for the next event where I could show off my new gown and shiny shoes.

But now, the events were different. The faces were still the same with a few new ones thrown in along the way. Those same faces had aged with new wrinkles and graying hair, different girlfriends or wives, expensive suits, and lavish gold adornments. Yet, the personalities never changed.

They had become their wealth. They no longer hid behind their schooling or bright ideas. They wore their money like cloaks on a priest. They weren't scientists, or pharmacists, or mathematicians, or doctors. They were diamonds, rubies, emeralds, silver, and gold.

I had finally seen this world for what it really was. It wasn't about helping people like I thought; it was about filling bank accounts. I was done. I wanted out. But I couldn't abandon it yet. I had to pretend. I had to mask my disdain and the ugliness I felt and parade around like the perfect daughter of the king. Any crack in the service was akin to pulling the wrong block from a teetering tower.

So, I acted like one of them. I wore the jewels and the fancy silk dresses. I laughed and smiled at all the right times. I lived the lifestyle they all thought I should be living. I was as fake as they were. The only difference was I knew it. But, soon enough, I would slip away, blend into the background, and disappear. I couldn't become what these people were. I refused to allow myself to slip willingly under water. My father would come to terms with my decision eventually. I just had to do it delicately.

“What can I get for you?” the bartender asked. He wiped off the smooth cherry bar top and placed down a fresh napkin. “Wine? Champagne? A mixed drink?”

“Surprise me,” I said, unimpassioned. The bartender wouldn't card me. No one would refuse the daughter of the most influential man in the state.

I took a small bottle of pills from my clutch and held it between my fingers. My name was clearly printed across thelabel, and my father's was printed as the provider on the bottom. I tipped the bottle and watched the oblong white pills tumble inside as I exhaled a slow, audible breath.

“Someone doesn't sound like they're having a good time,” a deep voice said.

I glanced to my right and saw a man sitting two seats over. He was wearing a jet-black suit with a blue handkerchief poking out of the breast pocket. Clutching a short glass, half filled with caramel-colored liquor on ice, he swirled it around, making the ice cubes bounce off the sides. The man's hair was dark brown, and his eyes were the color of freshly hardened amber. A thick stubble shadowed his jaw, rough yet smooth in the same breath.

My fingers itched to touch his skin, and I didn't know why. I passively closed my hand tighter around the bottle as if it would suddenly reach out on its own to touch his face.

He smiled with one corner of his mouth, then swallowed the rest of his drink. I watched his throat elongate, and the muscles tighten like a corded rope. “What,” he said as I stood silent. “Nothing to say?”

I tucked the bottle discreetly back into my clutch and said, “I'm having a really good time, actually. I like the music, it's nice. The food is amazing. Chef Genevive was flown in from France just—”

“You're a liar,” he said, cutting me off. “And not a good liar either. I can see right through you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked. The bartender passed me a pink mixed drink, and I took a quick sip. I didn't even care what it was. I just needed the alcohol.

“I think I was pretty clear with my words.”

“I understand what you said. What I'm wondering is why you're saying it as if you know anything about me?”

“A lie is a lie, doesn't matter what color you paint it. You're not having a good time. It's written all over your face.”

“I see what you're doing,” I said with a smirk. “I know exactly what this is.”

He chuckled as he rattled his glass to signal the bartender that he wanted a refill. “What is it you think I'm doing?”

“You're one of those guys.”