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The dress costs more than most people make in a month.

Midnight blue silk, the fabric soft as breath and colder than it should be.

It hugs the slope of my waist before flaring just enough to suggest elegance instead of intent, and when I move, it shifts like water.

The kind of dress that photographs well. The kind people remember.

The kind you wear when your presence is a performance.

I smooth a hand over the bodice, checking for flaws that don’t exist. The mirror reflects back a girl who looks like she belongs. Hair done, makeup perfect, every detail curated for a night that’s supposed to matter.

Except it doesn’t. Not really.

Outside, the city blinks like it’s bored—traffic crawling along the skyline, windows glowing in glass towers across from ours. I press two fingers to the windowpane and let the chill soak into my skin. Thirty-seven floors up and I still feel like a prisoner.

The intercom buzzes behind me. One short tone.

Marina, our housekeeper.

“Miss Carter?” Her voice crackles slightly over the speaker. “The car’s downstairs.”

“Thank you.”

I don’t move right away.

My phone lights up beside the vanity. No new messages. No surprise.

I pick it up anyway, scroll through the old ones like I’m looking for something. Anything. A missed text. A sign. A reason not to go alone again.

There’s nothing.

I switch the screen off and set it down without locking it. Maybe someone will pick it up and text me something worth reading.

Maybe pigs will fly.

The heels I chose are tall, narrow, brutal. I slide them on anyway. Beauty has always come with pain in this family. A lesson my mother taught me without ever saying the words.

She left when I was ten.

I used to wonder what it was she needed so badly she couldn’t find it here. Now I think I understand. Loneliness doesn’t care about square footage. A mansion is just a prettier cage.

When I reach the elevator, Marina is waiting with a black clutch in her hands. She gives me the same soft smile she always does—tight, practiced, sympathetic around the edges.

“You look lovely, Miss.”

“Thank you.”

“Your father—?”

“He’s not coming.” I take the clutch from her fingers, careful not to make it sound like I care. “He’s busy.”

Always busy.

She hesitates. “It’s a shame. The papers say this gala is honoring him.”

“It is.” My smile is just as practiced. “Which means he’ll probably send a check and call it support.”

Marina’s expression softens, but she doesn’t say anything else. Just presses the button for the elevator and steps back.

The doors open with a mechanical sigh.

Inside, the mirror walls reflect me in four directions. I glance up once, then look away. It’s easier to stare at the floor. The ride down is silent except for the faint hum of movement, the whirr of descent. When it stops, the valet is already holding the car door open.

The Rolls-Royce is glossy and black, the interior spotless. It smells like leather and money and the faintest trace of my father’s cologne. A ghost of him, left behind like a scent you can’t wash out of your skin.

I slide into the back seat. The door closes with a dull thud. Privacy glass darkens around me.

“Where to, Miss Carter?” the driver asks without turning.

“The Beaumont Hotel.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The engine purrs to life.

As we pull away from the curb, I look back at the building I’ve called home my whole life. Thirty-seven floors of silence and staff. No warmth. No music. No dinners that didn’t require advance notice or a guest list.

I remember being sixteen and asking my father if we could have a night in. Just the two of us. Chinese takeout and a movie, like real people.

He’d looked at me like I’d asked him to dismantle a bomb.

“You’re not a child anymore,” he’d said, with that same faintly irritated tone he always used when emotion snuck into my voice. “This isn’t some middle-class fantasy.”

The car hits a bump, and I blink hard once, swallowing the thought like it’s poison. Outside, the city speeds past in a blur of red lights and chrome.

My phone vibrates in the clutch. For a second, I think maybe—maybe—it’s him.

But it’s not.

Eleanor: Hope to see you tonight. Let me know if you want to arrive together! x

I type out a quick reply.

Already on the way. Save me a seat.

I don’t add anything else. Eleanor’s nice—one of the only people who doesn’t treat me like a PR opportunity—but even she doesn’t really know me.

No one does.

Sometimes I wonder if that’s my fault. If I’m too guarded. Too cold. Too good at playing my part. Other times—most times—I wonder if anyone ever wanted to know me at all.

I lean my head back against the leather, eyes half shut.

I wonder what it’s like to be chosen, not for your name or your face or the weight behind your signature—but for the way you laugh. The way you get quiet when you’re sad. The way you think at two in the morning when the world is too still.

I wonder if anyone’s ever looked at me and seen something worth holding on to.

The car pulls up in front of the hotel, where cameras flash like static and voices blend into a dull roar of anticipation. The driver steps out, circles to my door, and opens it just as I draw a breath.

Time to play the part.

The press flutters like vultures as I step out, calling my name, demanding a smile, a pose, a quote. I give them all three. I walk up the steps alone, spine straight, eyes forward, every inch the girl they think I am.

Inside, champagne waits.

The ballroom hums around me like a hive.

Glittering, loud, full of champagne smiles and teeth too white to be real.

Everyone here is beautiful, or paid enough to look like it.

I move through the crowd like I’m supposed to be here—because I am—but I can feel the way their eyes follow me. Not with curiosity. With calculation.

Richard Carter’s daughter. The heir.

I give them what they want. A measured smile. Perfect posture. A soft laugh when they say something they think is clever. My hand on a glass of champagne I won’t finish, I tilt my chin when I speak and pretend I don’t see the way their gazes slide over my skin like they’re imagining what I’d cost.

I’ve done this so many times I’ve lost count.

A man in his forties leans in too close, cologne thick and cloying. His cuff links flash when he lifts his glass.

“You’ve really grown up, Alina. Your father must be proud.”

“He’s always proud,” I lie.

He chuckles like he believes me. Like he doesn’t know Richard Carter hasn’t bothered to show his face in three months—not for a dinner, not for a phone call, not even tonight, when the entire gala is honoring him.

“He’s a visionary,” the man continues. “When he steps back… well, the legacy’s in good hands.”

He raises his glass to me like a toast. Like an offer.

I smile again. Smaller this time. Colder. “Enjoy the evening.”

I walk away before he can respond.

The heels ache against the balls of my feet, but I don’t slow down. I keep my back straight, my jaw relaxed, my breath shallow enough to hide the tightness in my chest.

There’s no one to talk to, not really. I don’t trust anyone here. Most of them knew me when I was twelve, smiled at me with sharp eyes while whispering about my mother’s disappearance behind crystal glasses.

Eleanor finds me near the bar. “God, you’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Looking like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

I take a sip of my drink. It’s warm already. “I would.”

She links her arm through mine and leans in. “Come on. I want you to meet someone.”

I don’t argue. The only thing worse than being alone in this room is looking like I am.

Eleanor leads me toward the corner of the ballroom, where the light dips just enough to feel private. A girl stands there with her back to us, long dark hair cascading down the back of a black velvet dress that’s a little too daring for this crowd.

“She’s young,” I murmur.

“She’s eighteen. Sharp as hell. Kiera Vargas. Her invitation came through one of the Latin American investors.”

Kiera turns as we approach. She’s gorgeous—unapologetically so—with sun-warmed skin and eyes like polished obsidian. Her expression is calm, bored, curious. All at once.

“So you’re the infamous Alina Carter.”

Her voice is low, slightly amused.

“That depends,” I say. “Are you here to flatter me or judge me?”

She laughs, genuine and bright. “Neither. I’m just here for the food.”

“Respectable.” I glance at her plate. Empty.

“I ate already,” she says. “These things never feed you enough anyway. It’s all about being seen, right?”

I raise an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I say it like someone who wasn’t raised to play dress-up with billionaires.”

Eleanor chuckles behind her drink. “I like you two together. You’re both a little mean.”

“I’m not mean,” I reply.

Kiera tilts her head. “No. You’re just… tired.”

That stops me. I study her face. Younger than me, but not na?ve. She sees too much.

“Tired of what?” I ask.

“Pretending you like it here.”

Eleanor claps her hands lightly. “Okay, enough psychoanalysis. We’re at a party.”

Kiera shrugs, unbothered. “You’re the one who dragged me here, Eleanor.”

“I dragged you because you looked like you were ready to start a fight at the bar.”

“Only if someone deserved it.”

I try not to smile. It slips out anyway, just barely. I haven’t smiled like this all night. Not since I left the penthouse. Not since I looked at my phone and saw the same empty screen.

No messages from him. No explanation. Of course not.

“Alina,” a man says behind me, and I already hate the way he says it.

I turn slowly.

He’s younger than most in the room—late twenties maybe—slick hair, tailored suit, jaw too tight. I’ve seen him before. Some minor hedge fund name.

“Hello, Chase,” I say flatly.

“Your father’s not here?”

“He had other obligations.”

He fakes a sympathetic look. “That’s too bad. I thought he might be interested in hearing about our expansion proposal in person.”

“He’s not.”

Chase’s eyes dart toward Kiera, linger half a second too long. She doesn’t flinch, just stares back at him like she’s already figured out how he dies.

“Excuse me,” I say, stepping between them. “We were just about to get another drink.”

Chase opens his mouth, thinks better of it, and nods. “Of course. Another time.”

We watch him disappear into the crowd.

Kiera leans close. “You always talk to men like that?”

“Only when I’m in a good mood.”

She smiles. “Must be a rare event.”

I glance over my shoulder. I can still feel the room pulsing behind me. Hear the notes of the string quartet trying to fill the space with something elegant. But it’s all just noise.

The unease crawls back up my spine like a second skin.

I excuse myself with a soft smile and a hand on Kiera’s arm, murmuring something about needing air. She doesn’t press. Just watches me go with a knowing look that settles beneath my skin. The kind of look that says she sees too much and says too little.

The hallway outside the ballroom is colder. Quieter. The noise fades behind heavy doors as I step out and lean against the wall, inhaling a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I pull my phone from my clutch, checking out of habit more than expectation.

Six missed calls, all from my father.

My stomach tightens. I stare at the screen for a beat too long, willing it to make more sense.

Richard Carter never calls once, let alone six times in a row.

Not when I’m at a gala. Not when he’s supposed to be off in some executive meeting or retreat or wherever he disappears to when his daughter becomes inconvenient.

My fingers move before my thoughts catch up. I call him back. It rings, but nobody picks up.

I lower the phone slowly, the weight of it suddenly unbearable in my hand. The champagne in my veins turns bitter. Something’s wrong. Not the kind of wrong I can explain yet—but the kind that drapes itself over your shoulders and whispers in your ear, cold and undeniable.

I try one more time, pressing the phone to my ear with too much force, hoping the pressure will ground me. That I’ll hear his voice. That he’ll tell me it’s nothing, just a mistake, just a glitch, just a meaningless flurry of calls.

The fourth voicemail kicks in, his voice distant and automated. He never even recorded a personal message.

I don’t leave one.

My heels click too loudly as I walk back into the ballroom. The music is still playing. People are still laughing. Nothing has changed, and yet everything feels different.

Kiera’s gone. Eleanor too.

For a moment, I just stand there, clutching my phone like it might tell me something more if I hold on tight enough. Then I turn, moving fast through the crowd, dodging conversation and eye contact, straight toward the front of the hotel.

The valet recognizes me immediately. He doesn’t ask if I’m leaving early or if I’m all right. He just nods and steps off the curb, calling for the car with one sharp whistle.

The doors close around me in silence. The driver looks up through the rearview mirror.

“Back home, Miss Carter?”

“Yes.”

I don’t say anything else. The words feel fragile in my throat, like they’ll shatter if I try to shape them into something coherent. My fingers tremble as I open the messages app again. No texts. No missed alerts. Just those six calls, lined up like warnings.

I press the side of the phone to my temple and close my eyes.

The city outside is a blur—streetlights streaking past, windows glowing in distant towers, everything alive and moving. Inside the car, time feels frozen. My heart beats loud in the quiet. I feel it in my throat, in my ribs, in my spine.

I don’t scare easily. I’ve spent most of my life pretending nothing can touch me. This isn’t fear. It’s something worse. Something older. A slow unraveling under the surface, where everything I’ve trusted starts to come undone thread by thread.