Chapter one

Sophie's POV

The Vanderbilt Hotel's grand ballroom smelled like money and malice.

Champagne and ambition hung thick in the air as New York's elite swirled beneath crystal chandeliers that dripped light like liquid diamonds. I pressed myself against a marble pillar, my thrift-store heels—dyed black to hide the scuffs digging into the Persian rug worth more than my yearly rent. Every nerve in my body screamed that I didn't belong here.

But I had to come.

The invitation had arrived like a cruel joke slipped under my studio apartment's door:

*Blackstone Charity Gala - Honoring the City's Finest. .*Black Tie Required*

My hands had shaken so violently when I opened it that the heavy cardstock nearly slipped from my fingers. Blackstone. The company that had systematically dismantled my father's life. The empire Damien Blackstone built on the bones of men like him.

And yet, here I stood. Because tonight's silent auction included Lot #217: my father's final masterpiece, "Winter's End".

The painting that had been seized from our home during bankruptcy proceedings, sold to satisfy creditors who circled like vultures even before the funeral flowers wilted.

A server glided past with a tray of champagne flutes. I reached for one, but my sleeve caught on the cheap rhinestones of my clutch, sending them scattering across the floor in a pathetic sparkle of faux glamour.

"Oops. Clumsy as ever, Sophie."

The voice slithered down my spine like spoiled champagne, sticky and sour.

**Daniel Carter.**

My ex-fiancé stood before me in a Tom Ford tuxedo that cost more than the used Toyota he'd once complained about helping me maintain. His arm was draped possessively around Alessandra Van Horn—heiress, socialite, and my replacement before the ink had dried on our breakup papers.

Alessandra's manicured fingers toyed with the diamond pendant at her throat a necklace Daniel had purchased the same week he'd claimed we couldn't afford to fix my studio's leaking ceiling. "This is the girl you wasted two years on?" she purred, her voice like honey laced with arsenic. "She looks like she dressed in the dark. In a dumpster."

Heat crawled up my neck in a vicious wave. I'd spent three sleepless nights altering this dress—a $20 bridesmaid's castoff from a Beacon's Closet bargain bin into something resembling haute couture. But under their twin gazes, I might as well have been naked.

Daniel smirked, his familiar face made alien by the cold amusement in his eyes. "What's the matter, Soph? No snappy comeback?" He leaned in close enough that I could smell the whiskey sour on his breath. "Still bitter I chose someone who doesn't reek of turpentine and failure?"

The crowd around us tittered. A woman in emerald silk covered her mouth, whispering to her companion. A man in horn-rimmed glasses smirked into his cocktail.

My nails bit into my palms hard enough to leave crescent moons. "Don't react. Don't give them the satisfaction."

But then Alessandra's gaze flicked to my shoes dyed black Payless heels with the soles reglued three times. "Oh my God." Her laughter rang out, high and shrill as a car alarm. "Are those from the "children's" section?"

Something inside me "snapped."

"At least I can walk in them," I said sweetly, tilting my head. "You're wobbling like a newborn giraffe in those Luis Vinton's. Then again, you'd need practice to keep your balance after all those nose jobs." My smile sharpened. "How many was it again? Three? Or did they lose count during the last reconstruction?"

The crowd gasped in collective delight. Nothing thrilled the wealthy more than bloodsport disguised as conversation.

Alessandra's face turned a satisfying shade of scarlet. "You little..."

Daniel stepped between us, his smile venomous. "Careful, Sophie. You're one word away from getting thrown out." He plucked a glass of burgundy from a passing waiter's tray, swirling the wine with practiced nonchalance. "Though maybe that's what you want. A dramatic exit for the girl who's always playing the victim."

He tipped the glass.

Time slowed as the wine arced toward me a crimson wave that crashed against my chest, soaking through the delicate fabric instantly. Cold liquid seeped into my skin as gasps erupted around us. The dress clung to me, suddenly transparent, the chill raising goosebumps across my flesh.

"Oops." Daniel didn't sound sorry. "Now you match your trashy personality."

The room spun. The whispers swelled around me like a tidal wave

"Pathetic."

"Who let her in?"

"Just like her father no self-respect."

And then, through the haze of humiliation, I felt it.

**A presence.**

The crowd parted like the Red Sea, their murmurs dying mid-breath. A man stood at the edge of the circle, his silence louder than any shout.

**Damien Blackstone.**

Six-foot-three of tailored Armani and ice-cold fury. His jaw could have been carved from marble, his storm-gray eyes locked on me with unnerving intensity. Even the air around him seemed different charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. No one breathed.

Then Damien stepped forward.

Without a word, he shrugged off his $10,000 tuxedo jacket the fabric whispering secrets I'd never be privy to and draped it over my shoulders.

The weight of it was warm from his body, smelling of sandalwood and something darker, more dangerous. It anchored me when all I wanted was to dissolve into the floor.

Daniel paled. "Mr. Blackstone, I..."

Damien didn't even glance at him. "Security." His voice was lethally quiet, the kind of tone that made billionaires tremble in boardrooms. "Escort these uninvited guests out."

Alessandra sputtered. "Uninvited? We're on the"

"You're on the blacklist now." Damien finally looked at them, and the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. "And if I ever see you harassing my guest again, you'll find out why they call me the Wolf of Wall Street."

Daniel's mouth opened. Closed. Two guards materialized as if summoned from the shadows, gripping his elbows with practiced efficiency.

As they were dragged away—Alessandra's shrill protests fading into the din—Damien turned to me. Up close, his eyes weren't just gray, they were quicksilver, like a blade's edge catching the light. "You're shaking."

I was. From rage. From shame. From the way his fingers lingered on the jacket's lapel, brushing my collarbone with accidental intimacy.

"I'm fine," I lied, my voice steadier than I felt.

His thumb caught a drop of wine sliding down my neck, the pad of his finger rough against my skin. "No," he murmured, so softly only I could hear. "You're not."

And then, in front of everyone—the socialites, the CEOs, the sharks in designer gowns—Damien Blackstone did the unthinkable.

He offered me his arm.

"Let's get you cleaned up."