Page 28 of More than Fiction (Misty Springs #1)

Corbin

As expected, the Grand Ballroom of The Plaza Hotel was a masterpiece of wealth and excess. Everything from the polished floors to the silk-draped tables reeked of meticulous planning, the kind only a hefty donation could buy.

It was all so… predictable.

Sullivan called me earlier—interrupting my Saturday morning jog with an animated reminder of tonight’s event.

“So... you bringing arm candy to the gala this year?” he asked.

“No.” I replied, my voice shaky from my run.

“Stag? I like that. Wait—you don’t already have some little piece you picked up in that dumpy town, do you?”

Typical Sullivan—his radar for detecting things I’d rather keep hidden annoyingly accurate.

I left his question unanswered, focusing on the sound of my feet hitting pavement while he continued to ramble about tux choices and how Davis was banned from tequila after last year’s incident.

The Haitian Housing Gala always pulled a big crowd from the real estate world. Last year, I sealed the military post-expansion deal I’d been chasing for months—a few cocktails and a stogie on the balcony closed it in just a couple of hours.

Of course, this annual event inevitably devolved into something resembling a frat party, where wild stories became fresh fodder for blackmail and collateral in our little circle.

Tonight was no exception. The ballroom buzzed with champagne flutes and performative laughter, every corner packed with expensive labels and strategic networking .

Guests floated between tables, their designer gowns swishing and suits perfectly tailored. Waitstaff carried silver trays of canapés that looked more decorative than edible, while the scent of floral arrangements and aftershave thickened the air.

Fundraising was the secondary objective here—the primary being to whip it out and measure it against the competition. It also served as the premier gossip mill, finding the next hot lead or learning who was tanking and prime for being gobbled up.

After engaging in droll conversation and grinding my teeth through a few sneering jabs about my father—not to mention feigned concern about my grandmother’s health or whispered questions about my grandfather’s mental state, more about collecting intel than offering sympathy—I needed a drink.

As if he read my mind, Davis sidled beside me, two whiskeys in hand.

He passed one to me.

“If I never wear another tux again, it will be too soon.”

“I’ll cheers to that. Maybe we could all wear assless chaps next time,” I gibed as I clinked our glasses together.

“I’m glad to see you’ve accepted your new persona with aplomb. Bravo.” Davis smiled as he sipped the amber liquid.

Tonight, he opted for a deep blue tux, a trendy take on the traditional black-and-white garb the rest of us penguins wore. Then again, Davis was always one to push the envelope.

“She’s here!” Sullivan exclaimed, stepping between Davis and me, throwing his arms around our shoulders.

Both of us nearly spilled our drinks.

“Who?” I asked, annoyed that my mind spent half a second jumping to Sophia.

“Cindy. She’s been blowing me off. I’m gonna go shoot my shot. Wish me luck,” Sullivan beamed.

Davis and I watched as he practically skipped toward Cindy.

“I don’t know why he’s so stuck on her,” I muttered to Davis. “She’s not the kind of girl you bring home to mom. She’s going to break his little labrador heart.”

Cindy was someone you needed to be careful around—a lesson I had unfortunately already learned. She wielded secrets like weapons, using men only to keep herself well-armed. I’d warned Sullivan to be careful, but he didn’t seem to be heeding my advice .

Sullivan was tall and broad, not someone I’d ever try to pick a fight with in a bar, but he was mushy as a marshmallow inside.

“You sound like you’ve gone soft, Corbin. Misty Springs, melting your ice heart a little?” Davis jested.

I grew up alongside Sullivan and Davis. We went from the same prep school to different Ivy League campuses, but our social circles always overlapped. They were the closest thing I had to friends.

Of course, friendship never stopped us from competing at everything.

With Sullivan, it was always playful, a sport for bragging rights.

But Davis? He made it a war game, turning every challenge into a battle he had to win.

I scanned the crowd, checking if Buzz had made his arrival yet. Ever since the dinner that warranted an exorcism the other night, he’d gone radio silent.

A tiny flicker of unease wormed its way into my mind. My life was beginning to shift in ways I couldn’t control.

Gram, my rock, my unwavering source of support, was sick. Buzz was teetering between being non-existent, or behaving erratically—his decisions veering toward the impulsive.

The constants in my life, the pillars I’d built everything around after my previous foundation had crumbled, were becoming variables.

Timon Griggs, a recently elected City Councilman, approached Davis and me, engaging in small talk and inquiring about our latest development near Brooklyn.

I was half listening when something across the room briefly caught my eye. I honed in on the movement.

Time seemed to slow down, voices muted, as I tried to process what I was seeing, or rather—who I was seeing.

Sophia.

Not in Misty Springs.

Here, in New York.

Shining like a damn goddess in a shimmering gold gown.

My mouth went dry, and I casually brought my whiskey glass to my lips, attempting to feign indifference while racking my brain with explanations of why she was here.

She turned her back to me, the cut of her dress exposing sleek muscle and smooth skin .

My eyes followed the fabric of her gown spilling to the floor, slowly drinking in every perfect detail of her. My scanning stopped the second a hand settled on the exposed skin, dangerously close to her ass.

I choked on my drink, eliciting concerned looks from both Davis and dipshit Griggs.

Davis jokingly patted my back.

I shoved his hand away.

“Excuse me,” my voice cracked as I dismissed them both.

I prowled toward Sophia, eyes locked on the man whose hand was about to be forcibly removed from her.

He turned his head, and recognition sparked.

Landon Norwood. And sure enough, hovering nearby, were his parents, Alicia and Perry.

The Norwoods were bottom feeders. I hadn’t seen them since the Maddingly job—the one we won, despite their smear campaign, forged documents, and leaks to the press.

The crowd made it hard to move fast, but I kept pushing forward, fueled by one thought—get Landon’s damn hand off her.

I’d figure out the rest later.

The Norwoods didn’t fight fair either. Hell, they didn’t even pretend to.

Masters of speculative buying, they crept in like a virus—parcel by parcel—until entire communities were backed into a corner. Property owners bullied. Permits mysteriously delayed.

Then came the big announcement: a highway, a corporate HQ. Their cheap land flipped overnight.

What followed? Shoebox apartments. Vanishing families. Fractured neighborhoods.

They didn’t build communities.

They gutted them.

Landon broke off from the group just as I hit the halfway mark, veering toward the bathroom and turning his head to ogle a leggy blonde in a skin-tight cocktail dress.

I felt the tension in my chest ease slightly now that he wasn’t touching Sophia, but my mission hadn’t changed—I needed to talk to her, to get some answers to why she was here… with them .

On the plane, I remembered a text popping up on Sophia’s phone—an “L” name. Landon? And there was “Norwood Realty” on her résumé. Was she some kind of plant? A spy?

I shoved the thought aside. Every assumption I’d made about Sophia so far had turned out wrong, but still, I wanted some damn answers.

I stopped behind a large pillar—close enough to overhear, but out of sight as Alicia’s voice carried over the crowd, grating and impossible to miss.

I could play spy, too.

“All I’m saying is it’s been long enough, don’t you think? You got what you wanted. Landon is sorry. He’s doting all over you like you want him to. Stop stringing him along already.”

Ugh. That voice could pierce steel.

“Mrs. Norwood.” Sophia’s tone was tight and angry. “All due respect, I’m not stringing your son along. He said you wanted me to come here—that’s why I came. I don’t want anything from him or you. We’re here as friends.” Her voice caught on that last word.

“Oh, nonsense. You accepted the ring back, did you not?” Alicia asked, smug and ignorant.

Ring? What the hell? Sophia was engaged? To Landon fucking Norwood?

“I didn’t take it back. I don’t wan—”

“And you’re here tonight,” Alicia interrupted, “on the airfare we paid for, in the dress we bought, eating the food from the ticket we gave you.”

“The only reason I’m here is because Landon told me he’d leave me alone after this,” Sophia rapped back, her voice cracking.

“Oh darling, you’re not fooling anyone. Like some bartending hotel maid could do better than my son. You have nothing without him. You’d do well to remember that.”

“Excuse me,” Sophia murmured, and I caught the moment she turned to walk away.

My eyes followed her as she slipped through the crowd—a golden swan in a sea of vultures. Just before she disappeared into the bathroom, I saw her swipe a tear from her cheek.

I remained locked in place as Alicia turned to her sniveling husband.

“Our assistant booked the suite for them.” Her voice sliced through my eardrums like nails on a chalkboard. “She and Landon can work everything out tonight. If he’s going to be stuck in that damn town, he might as well have the woman he wants to keep him occupied.”

Something snapped inside me.

Everything began to fall into place. Of course, the Norwoods had manipulated Sophia—just like everyone else.

They were sinking their teeth into Misty Springs, slowly sucking the town dry, along with the people in it.

No fucking way.

I wasn’t about to let that family ruin another town. Not one that meant so much to Gram. And not one that meant so much to Sophia.

I was going to dig up whatever intel they were chasing and beat them to it.

But first—I had to get Sophia away from them.