Chapter 3

Okay. So it turns out that trying to get a phone number in the upper crust of society is about as simple as hacking into the Pentagon.

All I wanted was Ethan Quan’s number.

Not to confess my undying love. Not to blow up his phone with memes. Just… to talk. Casually. Maybe invite him for coffee. Maybe ask him about that AI start-up he’s pretending isn’t revolutionary.

You know. Normal “Hey, I’m trying to stop you from becoming a tragic love interest” stuff.

So I did the obvious thing: I asked my “family.”

I waited until breakfast the next morning—same runway-sized table, same weirdly silent vibe, same eggs that tasted like disappointment—and cleared my throat.

“Mother,” I said, as politely as I could manage, “do you happen to have Ethan Quan’s number?”

A beat of silence.

Then she glanced up from her paper, one perfectly arched brow lifting. “Ethan Quan?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

Then: “What for?”

I tried to keep my smile casual. Friendly. Harmless. “We spoke at the gala last week. I thought I might follow up on something we discussed.”

This was a lie. We discussed wine. But I was banking on the fact that Evelyn Carrington rarely listened closely enough to notice.

She hummed, which in Evelyn-speak meant absolutely not but I’m too refined to say it aloud.

“You don’t need to concern yourself with him,” she said lightly, buttering a piece of toast like she wasn’t subtly cutting me off. “He’s not particularly... relevant.”

Not relevant. As if Ethan Quan—the CEO of QuanTech, the man whose brain could probably invent a new planet if given a decent espresso—was a side note in their social diary.

I didn’t push. Not there. Not in front of the butler or the second cousin twice-removed sipping a green juice at the far end of the table.

Instead, I found Julian.

Ah yes. Julian Carrington. My charming, bored “brother” who once tried to teach me poker while drunk on vintage whiskey. He was lounging in the garden with his phone when I caught him between distractions.

“Hey, Jules.”

He looked up, pushed his sunglasses onto his head, and gave me a smirk. “Lyra. To what do I owe the pleasure? Need fashion advice? A fake date? Money laundering tips?”

“Actually,” I said, leaning against the stone wall like I was just so casual, “I was hoping you had Ethan Quan’s number.”

That got his attention.

He blinked. “Ethan? As in, moody tech guy in the chair?”

“Don’t call him that.”

“What? I’m just saying—he’s a little intense, isn’t he?” Julian squinted. “You into him or something?”

“No. I mean—no, not like that. I just... wanted to ask him about something.”

“Right.” He snorted. “Well, good luck. I’m not exactly in his inner circle.”

“You had dinner with him last month.”

“I also had dinner with a Saudi prince and a woman who sells psychic crystals. Doesn’t mean I talk to any of them afterward.”

“So... you don’t have his number?”

He shrugged. “I might. Let me check.”

Hope bloomed for exactly three seconds.

“Ah, nope,” he said after a moment, flipping his phone around for me to see. “Just his assistant’s contact. If you’re trying to schedule something, you’ll have better luck going through her.”

Yeah, because nothing says warm, personal connection like messaging someone’s overworked assistant and saying, “Hi, I’d like to trauma-bond with your emotionally unavailable boss.”

But I smiled anyway. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Julian said, and went back to scrolling through whatever rich-people app tells you which yacht parties are trending.

Back in my room, I flopped onto the bed and let out a long, muffled scream into a pillow.

This shouldn’t be that hard. But it was becoming painfully clear: no one cared about Ethan. Not really. They tolerated him. Smiled at him. Invited him because his company was valuable and his presence made them feel benevolent.

But beneath all that, he was invisible. Disposable.

And now that I was paying attention, I could feel it. That quiet chill whenever his name came up. The way people leaned away from the topic, like it was mildly uncomfortable or awkward or beneath them.

I wasn’t having it.

He deserved more than that. Hell, he deserved someone who gave a damn before it was too late.

I sat up, grabbed my notebook, and scribbled at the bottom of the page:

Find Ethan. Properly. Like a person. Not a project.

After a deep dive into some charity event attendee lists, ancient gala programs, and a few strategic internet searches that may or may not have involved social engineering his assistant’s public schedule, I finally—finally—found it.

His number.

Buried in a five-year-old press release from a tech networking event, listed under “contact for investor inquiries.”

Not romantic. Not personal. But it was something.

I stared at it for a long moment.

This is it. The first real deviation. The moment I stop waiting for fate to hand me a scene and start writing my own.

My thumbs hovered over my phone.

I deleted my first draft immediately.

And my second.

By the third try, I had something that didn’t sound like I was trying to recruit him into a cult or sell him insurance.

Hi, it’s Lyra Carrington. I know this is unexpected—hope I’m not intruding. I just wanted to say I’ve been thinking about something you said at the gala. Would love to talk more, if you’re open to it.

Simple. Friendly. Just enough opening for him to ignore me if he wants.

I hit send before I could chicken out.

Then I turned my phone face-down on the bed and walked away like I hadn’t just thrown my soul into the void.

Let’s see what happens next.