Chapter One

Serena

The first thing I learned about rich people was that they could turn absolutely anything into an excuse to throw a party.

A business deal? Champagne.

A birthday? More champagne.

A charity event? Champagne, an orchestra, and a room full of people who would probably complain if the champagne wasn’t cold enough.

Tonight, we had all three.

I stood beside my mother in a ballroom overlooking Central Park, wearing a black dress I had spent three weeks pretending I didn’t want. It was beautiful, unfortunately. Which meant my mother had won the argument before it even started.

“You could at least try to look happy,” she murmured without moving her lips.

“I am happy.”

She glanced at me.

“I’m happy the dress has pockets.”

“Serena.”

“What? You asked.”

My mother gave me a look that had been perfected over twenty-five years of raising me. It was a mixture of disappointment, warning, and the quiet conviction that I was the reason she couldn’t have nice things.

I smiled sweetly and took a sip of champagne.

Across the ballroom, my father was talking to a group of men in expensive suits. I recognized two of them from business magazines, though I couldn’t have told you what their companies actually did. They all looked equally pleased to be standing together.

My father belonged in rooms like this. He knew when to laugh, when to shake hands, and how to make people feel important without actually promising them anything.

I had inherited his ability to talk my way out of trouble.

Unfortunately, I’d also inherited my mother’s habit of getting into it in the first place.

“Mr. Whitmore is coming over,” my mother said.

I followed her gaze.

An older gentleman was making his way toward us with the determination of a man who had already decided I would find his company delightful.

“Please tell me that’s not the one who asked whether I was still in college last Christmas.”

“He’s a very important client of your father’s.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“Serena, behave.”

I sighed.

This was going to be a long night.

Mr. Whitmore arrived, kissed my mother’s hand, and launched into a conversation about the economy. Within thirty seconds, he’d somehow managed to turn it into a lecture about the importance of young women building meaningful connections.

I smiled when appropriate.

Nodded when necessary.

Mentally planned my escape.

Then I saw him.

He stood near the entrance to a corridor on the far side of the ballroom, dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and no tie. One hand rested in his pocket. The other held a glass he didn’t seem particularly interested in drinking.

He wasn’t doing anything remarkable.

That was the strange part.

Everyone else in the room seemed to be working hard to be noticed. He looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else, and somehow, people kept looking in his direction anyway.

A man approached him. They exchanged a few words.

Whatever the man said made the stranger’s expression change.

Not much. Just enough.

His jaw tightened, and the man in front of him stopped talking.

I couldn’t hear their conversation over the orchestra, but I watched the stranger lean closer and say something that made the other man’s face lose its color.

Interesting.

“Are you listening to me?” Mr. Whitmore asked.

“Of course.”

“What did I just say?”

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

My mother closed her eyes briefly.

“Something about connections,” I said.

Mr. Whitmore frowned.

“Relationships,” he corrected.

“Right. Connections. Relationships. Very important.”

My mother pinched my arm.

I bit back a laugh.

By the time I looked toward the corridor again, both men were gone.

I should have forgotten about it.

Instead, I found myself wondering what someone could say to a grown man to make him look that frightened.

And why the stranger had looked so completely unaffected by it.

“Excuse me,” I said, setting my glass on a passing waiter’s tray.

My mother caught my wrist.

“Where are you going?”

“To find the restroom.”

“The restrooms are behind you.”

I glanced over my shoulder.

They were.

“Then I suppose I’ll have a very easy time finding them.”

“Serena.”

“I’ll be back in five minutes.”

She released me with a sigh that suggested she was already regretting bringing me.

I headed in the opposite direction from the restrooms.

The corridor was quieter than the ballroom, with soft lighting and framed photographs of previous Blackwell charity events lining the walls. Somewhere farther down, I heard a man’s voice.

“…you told me this was handled.”

Another voice answered, low and even.

“It was.”

“Then why is he talking?”

“Because you gave him a reason to.”

I slowed down.

I knew I should keep walking.

I also knew that if I returned to the ballroom, Mr. Whitmore would probably still be talking about relationships.

I took another step.

The second voice spoke again.

“You have two options. You can tell me the truth now, or you can explain to my lawyers why you thought lying to me was a good idea.”

A pause.

“I don’t think you understand—”

“No. I don’t think you understand who you’re dealing with.”

I rounded the corner.

And stopped.

The stranger from the ballroom stood beside a tall window, his hands resting loosely at his sides. The other man was backed against a console table, looking as though he would have preferred to be anywhere else on earth.

Neither noticed me immediately.

Then the stranger turned his head.

His eyes landed on mine.

For a second, nobody moved.

His eyes were darker up close than I’d expected. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in the way he looked at me that made me suddenly aware I had walked into a conversation I wasn’t supposed to hear.

The other man seized the opportunity.

“I need to get back inside,” he muttered.

The stranger didn’t look away from me.

“Go.”

The man practically fled.

I watched him disappear around the corner before looking back at the stranger.

“That was pleasant.”

His expression didn’t change.

“Excuse me?”

“Your conversation. Very welcoming. I especially liked the part where he looked like he was reconsidering every decision he’d ever made.”

He stared at me.

I stared back.

Then his gaze dropped briefly to my dress before returning to my face.

“You’re lost.”

It wasn’t a question.

I glanced down the corridor behind me.

“No, I’m pretty sure I’m still in the building.”

“Then you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be.”

“Is there a sign I missed?”

He looked toward the ballroom.

“Go back to the party.”

Something about the way he said it irritated me.

Not because he’d told me to leave. I was perfectly capable of recognizing when I wasn’t wanted.

It was the assumption that I’d obey simply because he’d spoken.

I folded my arms.

“You know, most people introduce themselves before they start giving orders.”

“Most people know when to mind their business.”

“Most people also know how to have a conversation without threatening someone, but I suppose we’re both disappointed tonight.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

There it was.

A reaction.

Small, but satisfying.

“Do you always talk this much to strangers?”

“Only the rude ones.”

“Then you must be exhausted.”

I almost laughed.

Almost.

Instead, I tilted my head and studied him properly.

He was handsome. Annoyingly so. The kind of handsome that probably made people forgive him for things they would condemn in anyone else. His suit fit perfectly, his hair looked like it had been styled by someone who charged too much, and he carried himself with the sort of confidence that suggested he’d never once had to wonder whether he belonged in a room.

Unfortunately, his personality was doing absolutely nothing for him.

“Let me guess,” I said. “You own the building.”

“No.”

“The event?”

“No.”

“The entire city?”

His mouth twitched.

It happened so quickly I might have imagined it.

“Are you always this irritating?”

“Only when someone gives me a reason.”

He took a step toward me.

Not enough to touch me. Just enough that I became aware of the difference in our heights and the fact that he hadn’t needed to raise his voice once to make his point.

“Here’s some advice,” he said. “When you overhear a conversation you don’t understand, keep walking.”

“Here’s some advice for you. If you don’t want people overhearing your conversations, stop having them in public corridors.”

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then he looked at me as though he were trying to decide whether I was genuinely stupid or simply had no sense of self-preservation.

I found both possibilities insulting.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Why?”

“Because I asked.”

“And I asked why.”

His jaw tightened.

I smiled.

This was getting better by the minute.

He reached into his jacket, took out a phone, and glanced at the screen. Whatever he saw seemed to annoy him further.

“Forget it.”

He turned to leave.

I should have let him.

Instead, I heard myself say, “You know, if you spoke to people like a normal human being, you might find they were more willing to help you.”

He stopped.

Slowly, he looked over his shoulder.

“Help me with what?”

I opened my mouth.

Then closed it.

That was a fair question.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Whatever it is you’re so angry about.”

“I’m not angry.”

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

“Right,” I said. “And I’m the Queen of England.”

This time, he actually smiled.

It wasn’t a warm smile. It didn’t soften his face or make him look friendlier. If anything, it made me more suspicious.

“There she is,” he murmured.

I frowned.

“Who?”

“The woman who thinks being clever is the same as being untouchable.”

My smile disappeared.

Something in his voice had changed. The teasing was gone, and the man looking at me now seemed considerably less amused.

I took a step closer before I could talk myself out of it.

“And you think being rich means nobody can tell you when you’re acting like an ass?”

His eyes held mine.

“Careful.”

“Or what?”

The silence stretched between us.

I wasn’t frightened.

At least, that was what I told myself.

There was something unsettling about him, something that had nothing to do with his size or his expression. He didn’t seem like a man who lost his temper often.

He seemed like a man who didn’t need to.

And that was worse.

A voice called his name from the ballroom.

“Kael?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

He was still watching me.

Then a man appeared at the end of the corridor, glanced between us, and stopped.

“Mr. Blackwell. They’re waiting for you.”

Kael finally looked away.

“Tell them I’ll be there in a minute.”

The man nodded and disappeared.

I stared at Kael.

Blackwell.

Of course.

That explained the building, the charity gala, and the way people seemed to develop sudden cases of good manners whenever he came within ten feet of them.

Kael Blackwell.

I’d heard enough about him to know that his family owned more than half the companies my father did business with. I’d also heard that he was ruthless, difficult to work with, and very good at making problems disappear.

Standing in front of him, I was beginning to believe the rumors.

“Serena Sinclair.”

I blinked.

He’d said my name like he was testing how it sounded.

I hadn’t told him.

His gaze flicked toward the ballroom, where my father stood among his business associates.

Then back to me.

“You’re Richard Sinclair’s daughter.”

I didn’t like the way he said it.

Not because he sounded impressed.

He sounded as though he’d just found something he’d been looking for.

“Unfortunately,” I said. “I keep telling him I’m adopted, but he refuses to cooperate.”

Kael didn’t laugh.

His expression had gone completely still.

“What did you say?”

I frowned.

“That I’m adopted?”

“No. Before that.”

I stared at him.

Was he serious?

“That you’re rude? Because I believe I said that twice.”

He took another step toward me.

This time, I didn’t move.

“How well do you know your father’s business?”

The question caught me off guard.

“What kind of question is that?”

“Answer it.”

I let out a short laugh.

“Absolutely not.”

His eyes hardened.

“Miss Sinclair—”

“Oh, now we’re using surnames? Wonderful. Should I call my father and ask him to send you an invitation to our next family dinner? You can interrogate us over dessert.”

For the first time since I’d met him, Kael looked genuinely irritated.

Good.

At least the feeling was mutual.

He slipped his phone back into his pocket.

“Stay away from things you don’t understand.”

I lifted my chin.

“And you should stop assuming every woman you meet is going to do what you tell her.”

We stared at each other for another moment.

Then I turned and walked away.

I made it halfway down the corridor before I heard him speak again.

“Serena.”

I stopped, mostly because I was curious what ridiculous thing he planned to say next.

When I looked back, he hadn’t moved.

“Enjoy the party.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Try not to threaten anyone else before dessert.”

I left before he could respond.

By the time I reached the ballroom, my mother was standing beside the table where she’d left her champagne. She took one look at my face and sighed.

“What did you do?”

“Why does everyone assume I’ve done something?”

“Because I know you.”

I picked up a fresh glass of champagne.

“I met Kael Blackwell.”

Her expression changed.

Not dramatically. My mother was far too practiced for that.

But the hand holding her glass tightened.

“You spoke to Kael?”

“Unless there’s another one wandering around the building, yes.”

“What did you say to him?”

I considered the question.

“Nothing that should get me arrested.”

“Serena.”

“He was rude. I was rude back. We survived.”

My mother looked past me toward the ballroom entrance.

“Stay away from him.”

I slowly lowered my glass.

That was interesting.

My mother rarely told me to stay away from anyone. She usually preferred to explain, at exhausting length, why I should behave appropriately around people who might be useful to our family.

But this?

This sounded personal.

“Why?”

She looked at me.

“Because I said so.”

I stared at her.

Then I laughed once, without humor.

“I’m twenty-five, Mom.”

“And you’re still my daughter.”

Before I could respond, my father approached us, looking far too pleased with himself.

“There you are, sweetheart.” He kissed my mother’s cheek, then turned to me. “Have you met Kael Blackwell yet?”

My mother went quiet.

I looked between them.

“Oh, I’ve met him.”

My father smiled.

“Excellent. He’s an important man to know.”

I took a slow sip of champagne.

“Well, he certainly made an impression.”

My father chuckled, apparently mistaking that for approval.

Then he said something that wiped the smile off my face.

“He’s been asking about our family.”

I glanced toward the other side of the ballroom.

Kael stood beside the stage, listening to a man who seemed determined to impress him.

As if he felt my gaze, he looked up.

Our eyes met across the crowded room.

He didn’t smile this time.

Neither did I.

My father continued talking, but I barely heard him.

Because suddenly, I remembered the question Kael had asked me in the corridor.

How well do you know your father’s business?

And for the first time that evening, I wondered whether the man I’d dismissed as an arrogant bastard had a reason for asking.

I just had no idea what it was.

And something told me I wasn’t going to like finding out.

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