Page 3

Nic

I’m cranky and exhausted.

I’ve spent the last hour working through the room of self-satisfied millionaires, while avoiding the section of the room where he has been sitting all night.

My grip tightens on the clipboard with checks that should embarrass the men who wrote them.

The man in the peacock mask has already made a donation, but the fucker is just making himself impossible to ignore.

“It’s so rewarding to give back,” Peacock Mask declares to his starry-eyed date, who gazes at him like he’s just found the cure for cancer.

If I hadn’t collected Peacock’s check myself, I’d be inclined to think he single-handedly funded an entire wing of the Children’s Ward at the Pacific Coast Trauma Center. I flick my gaze down just to check.

Yep, twenty dollars.

He opens his mouth to brag again.

Don’t do it, Nic, I tell myself.

But I’m already moving toward him.

“Mr. Radisson?” I say, gliding into their space. “There seems to be a small discrepancy with your donation.” I widen my eyes, layering in the admiration. “You’re currently listed under the high school leavers and unemployed bracket.”

His face tightens.

The moment hangs heavy before a sympathetic smile curls at my lips. “Would you like me to note the rest as a deferred pledge? We’d hate for the records to reflect an incomplete contribution.”

His ears flush red. His date blinks at him, clearly questioning everything.

No need to wait for an answer. With a quick tap of the clipboard and a knowing smile, I vanish back into the crowd.

Men like him gaslight for sport. I should know. I grew up around them.

I really shouldn’t be pissing off Lana Withers’ donors—not when it took me two years to claw my way into her pool of volunteers. But Radisson was asking for it tonight.

Exhaling slowly, I roll the tension from my shoulders and almost reach for a flute of champagne from a passing waiter—no, not champagne.

Lana was very clear. Champagne is for guests, not the help. And the bar? Off-limits unless you’ve raised five figures. I haven’t even broken four digits yet, and this is the last day of the fundraiser.

A lace mask that itches, another uncomfortably tight rented dress, and, because I’m such a glutton for punishment, the same four-inch heels I poured my feet into yesterday—and all I have to show for it is a whopping seventy-five dollars. My cut? $3.75. Barely enough for a Bodega coffee.

Face it, Nic. You’ve always sucked at asking for money.

It has nothing to do with being tense as a bow, or the massive problem sitting in the shadowed part of the room like he belongs there.

Kai fucking-whatever-his-real-last-name Mitchell.

He’s Lana Withers’ brother.

I always knew we’d meet again. I’ve been working my way into his life for years. I just never thought it wouldn’t happen on my terms.

Yet here he is, in a place he shouldn’t be, unraveling my plans just by existing.

My stomach lurches with what can only be resentment, and I force my gaze away, scanning the crowd for something to anchor me.

Where the fuck is Barry, anyway?

I shift my weight in the killer heels and scan the crowd for my friend who disappeared to the men’s room half an hour ago, but my eyes snag on Lana herself, and for a moment, I forget everything else.

Lana Withers stands in a pool of golden light, her crimson gown gleaming as she laughs at something her companion says. The black beaded and feathered mask only covers half her face, and the rippling burn scars on her left cheek, extending down her neck, catch the light.

The man she’s talking to suddenly throws his head back and laughs so heartily I roll my eyes.

No doubt he’ll soon be writing her a check for more money than I’ve ever seen.

How the hell does Lana get them to throw down like that?

“Plotting her murder is pointless, Nic. You’re not in the line of inheritance.”

I chuckle at the sound of my best friend’s voice, then turn around to find him looking like he just crawled out of a hedge of thorns. His mask is crooked, his bowtie is missing, and his platinum blond spiky hair is a little too wild to be intentional.

“Barry.” I narrow my eyes at him. “What have you done?”

He shrugs. “What do you mean? I’ve been working.”

I cross my arms. “You look like you just robbed a bank.”

“Funny you should say that.” He calmly reaches into the pocket of his navy blazer and pulls out a slip of paper, then holds it up for me to see.

It takes me a second to realize what I’m looking at. A check.

For fifty thousand dollars.

Mouth agape, I glance from the check to Barry, then back again. “Oh my god, Barry, how—”

He grins like the cat that just dropped a mouse on my doorstep. “You told me after your shitty experience yesterday I couldn’t raise a thousand grand. Thought I’d prove you wrong.”

I shake my head. “But how the hell did you pull it off?”

Barry taps the side of his nose, but his eyes drift meaningfully toward a distinguished couple by the fountain.

“Let’s just say Greg from Goldman Sachs and I had a fulfilling conversation about giving it up in the men’s bathroom.”

My eyes widen. “You and Greg—Barry! His wife is right there!”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “So? Who am I to judge a guy with very generous . . . hands?”

I groan. “I feel like your pimp right now.”

“Lighten up,” Barry smirks. “The man was going to donate the check, anyway. I just made sure it came through you.” He dangles it. “Now, do you want it, or shall I hand it over to Lana myself—”

I snatch the check and shove it into my clipboard, sighing in relief. Finally. Five percent commission will give me two and a half grand. More than enough to rent a proper studio for the kids I teach.

Barry slips an arm around my shoulders and tugs me toward the bar. “Now that the boring part is over, it’s time to play a little.”

“No way, José,” I say, scanning the crowd for my next mark.

“Relax, Nic. You’ve earned the right to throw back a few drinks and let your hair down. Literally.”

“Not everywhere is a playground, Barry.”

“God, you’re too uptight for someone who just got engaged.”

My fingers twist the diamond ring, cold and heavy, more shackle than promise.

“Bringing up my engagement every two seconds isn’t going to make it less real, Barry,” I snap, more angry at myself than him. “Suck it up. I’m marrying Theo.”

Barry narrows his gaze. “Nic, not everything is a game of chess.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah? Those huge baby blues might fool everyone else, but not me.” His voice hardens. “Speaking of games—we had a bet.”

“Forget it.”

I turn to leave, but his next words stop me.

“I raised fifty grand for your little bend-and-stretch team. The least you could do is humor me for five minutes.”

“No.”

“Five minutes.” He holds up his hand like he’s swearing an oath. “One drink. One conversation with someone who isn’t Theo.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because you scare me, Nic.” His voice drops. “The only reason you’re with Theo is because you can control him. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re wrong.”

Barry folds his index finger. “Okay. How about this? While you’re here playing perfect fiancée, Theo’s at some frat party with his tongue down a skinny brunette’s throat.”

My jaw clenches. There’s a good chance it’s true. Theo’s at a party as we speak, and his weakness for brunettes wasn’t the passing phase I’d hoped for.

“Bite me.”

“You don’t even care, do you?”

Of course I care who Theo fucks—just not for the reasons I should. We’re Valencia’s golden couple, and there’s nothing more vicious than small-town gossip. A scandal would hit the Aldridge business hard. Theo cheating on me again would mean I wasn’t ‘handling’ things.

I force a hitch in my breath, playing hurt.

“Cut the crap.” Barry’s eyes bore into mine. “You’re not avoiding the bar because you’re faithful. You’re afraid of what you might find.”

“And what’s that?”

Barry’s smile turns sharp. “A reason to break up.”

"Impossible. Theo and I have been together for—"

"Yes, yes.” Barry waves me off. "You grew up on each other's asses. Best friends since six, started dating at eighteen, he popped your cherry at twenty-one.” He tilts his head. "If only any of that meant something to you."

"You're a jerk.” I hate that he knows me so well.

"I'm also right. Now play your part,” he reaches for my clipboard, "or I'm taking back my check."

I yank it from his grip and tuck it under the metal clip. "Try prying it from my cold, dead hands."

I suppose for fifty grand, I could let someone buy me a drink.

"Five minutes,” I concede.

Barry's grin spreads. "Perfect. Because I've already picked your target."

"What do you mean, picked?"

"What, you think I'd let you waste time on some perfumed douche? Please. There's only one man here. The same one you've been eyeing like you want to kill him. Or fuck him."

My nails dig into my clipboard, but I keep my expression neutral.

I knew I was looking too long.

"Don't you mean you want to fuck him?” I force a bored smile.

"Oh, for sure.” Barry leans close, voice conspiratorial. "But sadly, I’m not his type.” He straightens, grinning. "I've got a hunch you’re his, since he's not been able to take his eyes off you."

Something twists in my gut, ugly and sharp. "This isn't funny."

"Do I look like I'm laughing?” He nods toward the bar. "Six o'clock. Boring-as-fuck mask. Your time starts now."

I don't follow his gaze. I don't have to. I already know who he means. My pulse pounds at the base of my skull as Barry saunters off, leaving me rooted to the spot.

I never do anything unprepared, and I just let Barry—messy, reckless Barry—shove me toward the one thing I brought him here to protect me against.

The air feels thick, pressing down on me as I drag my gaze across the ballroom, over clusters of people, over polished masks and expensive smiles. My eyes land on him and cling, as if with a mind of their own.

He lounges at the bar, one foot on the floor, the other on the barstool rung. His posture is loose, easy, as he observes the room. Dark curls, shorter at the sides, slightly tousled. His black turtleneck stretches across his broad shoulders.

He looks like he accidentally wandered into this sparkly circus from a much cooler party. While everyone else begs for attention with feathers and crystals, his simple black mask only makes him stand out more.

I watch, unable to stop myself, as he lifts a glass to his full lips—lips I know can curl into a mocking sneer or press into a thin line of anger.

I’ve seen them a thousand times. On red carpets. In magazine covers. In the grainy, stolen photos I paid more than I care to admit for.

And in my own mind.

It’s been eight years since my step-sister, Cass, drowned in his pool. And he got to walk away from it all.

The rage rises like a scream in my throat—hot, sour, poisonous. My nails dig into my palm. I want to break the skin and feel the warm blood run out of me.

It took two years to work my way into his sister’s circle. If that failed, I would’ve taken the internship in Gstaad—the pristine, snow-dusted village where he hides abroad. Anything to stand face-to-face with the man who ruined the only anchor I had.

And now I’m here.

Face-to-face.

And all I feel is helplessness.

I’m not ready for this.

I should get out of here before I start screaming. Or worse—before I break down and cry.

I spin on my heels.

And immediately lock eyes with Barry’s mocking face across the room.

Even while holding a forbidden champagne flute, he manages to tuck his wrists into his armpits and flap his elbows. I don’t need to be near him to hear the squawking sounds he’s making.

Chicken.

I flip him the bird and turn back, marching straight toward Kai—

“Nic.”

I nearly jump out of my skin.

Lana appears as if conjured by my recklessness, her black lace mask studded with onyx stones and crow feathers. Her presence is commanding, even though she’s not much taller than me.

The burn scars crawling down her cheek and neck catch the light, shimmering with the strange beauty of something broken and remade. Laser resurfacing hadn’t done much for her.

Or maybe she didn’t want it to.

It took me a while to figure out Lana and Kai are related—what with Kai’s name change—but ever since I found out last year, I’ve wondered how she got the scars.

Was she caught in the same house fire Kai started to cover Cass’s murder?

Lana tilts her head, her smile unreadable. For a moment, it feels like she’s looking right through me.

“What are you doing, Nic?”

Good question. What the fuck AM I doing?

About to ruin your brother’s life doesn’t sound quite right, so I say instead, “I just got a check . . .”

Her eyes widen slightly behind her mask, then her lips curve into a smile—a real one, albeit slightly crooked. “Fifty?”

I nod, holding it out like a peace offering. “Here.”

Lana studies the check with the kind of focus most people reserve for priceless works of art, then slips it into a passing usher’s hand.

“Good work, Nic. You’re showing a lot of promise.”

“I’d do anything for my kids,” I say, letting warmth ooze from my voice, mentally fist-pumping when Lana’s eyes soften.

I press on. “After my accident, my dad couldn’t afford the multiple surgeries, so for a time, all I had was physical therapy—and it changed my life. The least I can do is give those kids the same thing.”

Jesus. Could I sound more desperate for her approval?

Lana beams now. “You’re doing something special here, Nic. Why don’t you send my team an email—I want to give you open access to plan all our events.”

Stifling a snort, I gush my thanks. If there’s one thing I’ve learned tonight, it’s that I suck at raising funds. I need another way to get money for my kids.

Maybe I ought to take Professor Keoni’s marketing course after all.

Lana’s gaze flicks meaningfully to the ring on my left hand, then past me—toward her brother.

“I’ll let you get back to . . . your night. And Nic?”

“Yeah?”

“You either listen to your heart or you drown in the noise.”

With that cryptic statement, she melts back into the crowd.

That almost felt like permission.

I glance at the bar. Kai is still there, but he’s turned away now, facing the counter.

I force myself forward, ignoring the alarm blaring in my head, drowning out the quartet and the laughter in the room.

I’m Nicole. Business school scholarship student. Mentor. Teacher. Valencia's Cinderella story—the pathetic girl who lost her mother but found her prince.

A perfect daughter. Perfect sister. Perfect fiancée. The voice of reason to Theo’s recklessness.

No one knows who I am under all that. What I do in the dark. That I’ve spent years collecting pieces of the man who destroyed my family—and tucking them away for later.

Because I never let the mask slip. And this feels like it.

Or maybe it’s something else.

Like gravity, daring me to let go and see what it feels like to fall.