Chapter 1 - MY EX POURED CHAMPAGNE DOWN MY DRESS TO HUMILIATE ME—THEN THE MOST POWERFUL MAN IN THE ROOM CALLED ME HIS FIANCÉE
By the time champagne soaked through my black dress and dripped into my shoes, nearly forty people were laughing.
And Damian was laughing loudest.
Six months after dumping me by text and telling me I no longer fit into his future, my ex had apparently decided heartbreak wasn't enough.
He wanted humiliation too.
Twenty minutes earlier, my biggest problem had been an orchid arrangement that refused to stay upright.
The Astor Grand Hotel glittered beneath crystal chandeliers while politicians, investors, celebrities, and old-money families filled tables that cost more per seat than I made in a month.
At twenty-nine, I was an assistant event coordinator for Bellmere Events, which mostly meant fixing disasters nobody else wanted.
I had been working since six that morning.
My feet were throbbing.
The zipper of my dress had started irritating my back.
And the only thing I had eaten was half a blueberry muffin behind the loading dock at eleven.
“Please stay,” I whispered to the orchid stem as I pushed another floral pin into the arrangement. “I cannot survive another crisis tonight.”
“Well, if it isn't my favorite little barista playing dress-up.”
Every muscle in my body locked.
Some voices survive long after love dies.
Damian Cross.
I turned.
There he stood.
Perfect tuxedo.
Expensive watch.
Polished smile.
And beside him was Victoria Langford, heiress to one of the largest private real-estate fortunes on the East Coast.
She wore emerald silk and enough diamonds to communicate exactly why Damian had decided she fit his future better than I did.
His eyes caught mine.
“You heard, then.”
My throat tightened.
“Congratulations.”
Victoria looked me over slowly.
“This is her?”
“The very one,” Damian said.
“Oh.”
One syllable.
Delivered like I was something unfortunate stuck to her shoe.
I tried to step around them.
“I'm working.”
Damian blocked me.
“Don't be rude. Victoria's been curious.”
“I really haven't,” she said.
They laughed together.
And suddenly I was back in our basement apartment in Brooklyn.
Damian studying at the kitchen table.
Me coming home smelling like coffee and printer toner.
I had worked two jobs to help pay his tuition.
Sold my grandmother's bracelet.
Worn the same winter coat for three years.
When he needed $4,800 to finish a semester, I emptied the emergency savings account I had spent six years building.
When he needed an interview suit, I bought it.
When he needed rent, I covered it.
“When I make it,” he used to whisper against my forehead, “we make it.”
Then he graduated.
His salary exploded.
His friends changed.
His restaurants changed.
His clothes changed.
And suddenly my job was embarrassing.
Our apartment was depressing.
My friends were unsophisticated.
My thrift-store furniture was ugly.
And the woman who had carried him through poverty no longer fit the image he wanted.
At 3:17 one morning, he ended four years with a text.
Ava, I've been thinking about our future. I don't think we're growing in the same direction anymore.
Growing.
Such an elegant word for abandoning someone.
Two weeks later, photographs showed him on a yacht with Victoria.
Now he stared at me as if I had been nothing more than a phase he was embarrassed to admit existed.
Victoria glanced at the flowers.
“Damian said you worked in coffee.”
“I did.”
“How quaint.”
“I also worked nights doing medical billing.”
Damian laughed again.
Something inside me finally hardened.
For six months, I had cried over him.
Missed him.
Wondered what was wrong with me.
But standing beneath those chandeliers and watching him enjoy making me small, one thought hit me harder than the breakup ever had.
Maybe the man I loved had never existed.
Damian reached for a champagne flute from a passing tray and smiled at Victoria.
Then he looked at me.
And tipped the glass.
Cold champagne poured straight down the front of my dress.
Gasps turned into laughter.
Not everyone laughed.
But enough did.
Enough people found the humiliation of a working woman entertaining when the man humiliating her wore a twelve-thousand-dollar watch.
Damian grinned.
“Relax, Ava. It's just a cheap dress.”
I looked down.
Champagne dripped from the hem.
My cheeks burned.
I wanted to slap him.
I wanted to cry.
Mostly, I wanted to disappear.
Then the ballroom became strangely quiet.
Not gradually.
Instantly.
Someone had stopped behind me.
A deep male voice cut through the silence.
“Touch my fiancée again, Damian, and that dress will be the least expensive thing you lose tonight.”
Nobody laughed.
Damian's smile vanished.
I turned.
And forgot how breathing worked.
Adrian Blackwood.
Even I knew the name.
Everybody did.
Blackwood Capital owned pieces of Manhattan most New Yorkers didn't realize could be owned.
Hotels.
Commercial towers.
Private aviation companies.
Shipping terminals.
Technology firms.
Adrian himself appeared rarely in magazines and almost never at parties.
Rumors followed him anyway.
Some said he had destroyed a hedge fund in forty-eight hours after its CEO threatened one of his sisters.
Others claimed a developer had lost six Manhattan projects after lying to him in a meeting.
People called him ruthless.
Cold.
Dangerous.
Not because he shouted.
Because he didn't need to.
He was thirty-eight.
Tall.
Dark-haired.
Wearing a black tuxedo that looked almost severe against the ballroom lights.
And he was looking at Damian.
Not me.
Damian swallowed.
“Mr. Blackwood.”
Adrian's eyes dropped to the empty champagne glass.
“Was there something amusing?”
Damian glanced around.
“No.”
“Interesting.”
Adrian removed his jacket.
Then, without touching me, he held it open.
“For your shoulders.”
I stared.
His gaze shifted to mine.
Calm.
Not possessive.
A question.
I took it.
“Thank you.”
Only after I wrapped the jacket around myself did the insanity of his previous sentence return.
Fiancée.
I whispered:
“What are you doing?”
His mouth barely moved.
“Giving you an exit.”
“I don't know you.”
“I know.”
“That seems relevant.”
“It is.”
Damian heard enough.
“Wait.”
He looked between us.
“You two are engaged?”
Adrian finally looked amused.
“Does that bother you?”
“No.”
Damian answered too quickly.
Victoria touched his arm.
Adrian noticed.
“So this is Ava?” he asked.
Damian frowned.
“You know her name?”
“Yes.”
My confusion deepened.
Adrian turned toward me.
“Ms. Bennett, would you walk with me?”
Ms. Bennett.
Not sweetheart.
Not darling.
Not a fake intimate nickname.
My actual name.
I nodded.
Before leaving, Adrian looked at Damian.
“The Astor Grand has rules regarding harassment of employees and contractors.”
Damian's face changed.
“You own the hotel?”
“Not personally.”
A pause.
“My company does.”
Damian looked like someone had removed the floor beneath him.
Adrian continued.
“If Ms. Bennett wants you removed, you'll be removed.”
Every eye shifted to me.
For six months Damian had controlled the ending.
He dumped me.
He upgraded.
He told our mutual friends we had “grown apart.”
Now forty people waited to see what I would do with the smallest piece of power I had possessed around him in years.
I looked at Damian.
“No.”
His eyebrows rose.
I continued.
“Let him stay.”
Adrian glanced at me.
Damian smiled.
Too soon.
I finished:
“I want him here when I finish running the event successfully.”
His smile disappeared.
I turned away.
Adrian walked beside me.
We crossed the ballroom.
People stared.
I kept moving until we reached a service corridor.
Then I stopped.
“What was that?”
Adrian adjusted one cuff.
“A lie.”
“I gathered that.”
“A useful one.”
“You called me your fiancée.”
“Yes.”
“In front of half of Manhattan.”
“Approximately.”
I stared.
“Are you insane?”
“Occasionally.”
Despite myself, I almost laughed.
Then anger returned.
“Why?”
His expression changed.
“Because Damian Cross poured champagne over a woman who couldn't retaliate without risking her job.”
“That explains stopping him.”
“Yes.”
“Not proposing to me.”
“I didn't propose.”
“You announced.”
“Fair distinction.”
I folded my arms.
His jacket smelled faintly of cedar.
“Why me?”
Adrian looked toward the ballroom.
“Do you remember Eleanor Blackwood?”
The name struck something.
I searched my memory.
Then—
“Ellie?”
His expression softened.
“My grandmother.”
I stared.
Two years earlier, when I still worked at Café Morrow, an elderly woman had become a regular.
She ordered Earl Grey.
One sugar.
Toast almost burned.
She hated people making a fuss over her.
For eight months I served her three mornings a week.
I had no idea she belonged to the Blackwood family.
“She was your grandmother?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God.”
“She liked you.”
“I liked her.”
“She knew.”
I smiled despite everything.
Ellie had died the previous winter.
I remembered crying in the café bathroom when her driver came to tell us.
Adrian continued.
“She left instructions concerning you.”
My smile faded.
“What instructions?”
“That is why I came tonight.”
“You came for me?”
“Yes.”
Before I could ask more, my boss appeared.
Margaret Bellmere.
She looked terrified.
“Ava.”
My stomach dropped.
“Mrs. Bellmere.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing I can't—”
“I've heard six versions.”
She looked at Adrian.
“Mr. Blackwood.”
“Margaret.”
Then at me.
“You're engaged to Adrian Blackwood?”
“No.”
Adrian said simultaneously:
“Temporarily.”
I stared at him.
Margaret blinked.
“What does temporarily engaged mean?”
“I would also love that explanation.”
Adrian almost smiled.
Margaret rubbed her temple.
“The Langfords are threatening to pull next month's museum gala.”
My heart sank.
Because of me.
Of course.
Victoria's family represented one of Bellmere's largest clients.
“I'll apologize.”
Adrian's expression hardened.
“No.”
I turned.
“This is my job.”
“You did nothing.”
“That doesn't matter.”
“It should.”
“Welcome to events.”
Margaret looked miserable.
“Ava, perhaps if you spoke to Victoria privately—”
Adrian interrupted.
“Blackwood Capital has twelve events scheduled through Bellmere this year.”
Margaret went silent.
“So?”
“So if Ms. Bennett is required to apologize for having champagne poured over her, those contracts will be reviewed tomorrow.”
My mouth fell open.
Margaret looked between us.
“That won't be necessary.”
“Good.”
She hurried away.
I turned on Adrian.
“Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
“Use your money to threaten my boss.”
“I used contracts.”
“That's money wearing a tie.”
That actually made him smile.
“Fair.”
“I can handle myself.”
“I believe you.”
“Then stop rescuing me.”
His smile vanished.
“I wasn't trying to rescue you.”
“What would you call that?”
“Correcting leverage.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
He looked at me carefully.
“Rescuing assumes you cannot stand without me.”
“Leverage means you were standing in a room where everyone else had more power and I temporarily changed the balance.”
I hated that the distinction made sense.
“What did your grandmother leave me?”
Adrian reached inside his jacket.
Then remembered I was wearing it.
I handed it back.
He removed an envelope.
My name appeared on the front.
Ava Bennett.
Ellie's handwriting.
My throat tightened.
“She wrote this?”
“Three weeks before she died.”
I took it.
“What is it?”
“I don't know.”
“You didn't open it?”
“It isn't mine.”
That answer surprised me.
“Then why wait months?”
“I didn't know where you were.”
“My address isn't difficult to find.”
“You moved.”
True.
“Your old employer wouldn't provide personal information.”
Good.
“And Bellmere wouldn't confirm your employment until my office explained the estate matter.”
I looked at the envelope.
“Estate?”
Adrian nodded.
“Read it privately.”
“Why?”
“Because my grandmother also left you something.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“Shares.”
I laughed.
He didn't.
My laughter stopped.
“In what?”
“Blackwood Hospitality.”
I stared.
“How many?”
“Enough that Damian Cross is going to regret laughing at your dress for reasons neither of you understands yet.”
I stared at him.
“Explain.”
Adrian looked through the service doors toward Damian.
“Damian works for Langford Development.”
“Yes.”
“Langford is trying to acquire three Blackwood hotel properties.”
“Yes?”
“The transaction requires approval from a minority shareholder trust.”
My pulse changed.
“No.”
Adrian looked directly at me.
“My grandmother transferred that voting position to you.”
The corridor tilted.
“How much is it worth?”
“In cash value?”
“Yes.”
“Approximately fourteen million dollars.”
I stopped breathing.
Adrian continued.
“But the voting rights are more valuable.”
“How?”
“You can block the Langford acquisition.”
Through the doors, Damian laughed at something Victoria said.
Fourteen million.
Voting rights.
My cheap dress was still wet beneath Adrian's jacket.
I thought of the $4,800 tuition payment.
The grandmother's bracelet I sold for $1,300.
The coffee shifts.
The medical billing.
The text message at 3:17 a.m.
Adrian watched me.
“There's more.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“My grandmother left a condition.”
Of course she did.
Ellie loved conditions.
“What condition?”
“You must serve on the Blackwood Hospitality board for one year before selling the shares.”
I almost laughed again.
“I coordinate centerpieces.”
“You managed this event.”
“As an assistant.”
“You kept four hundred wealthy people from noticing the catering elevator broke for forty-three minutes.”
I stared.
“How do you know that?”
“I own the hotel.”
Right.
Adrian continued.
“My grandmother believed you were smarter than the life you had settled for.”
That hurt unexpectedly.
I looked at the envelope.
“What does any of this have to do with calling me your fiancée?”
For the first time, Adrian looked slightly uncomfortable.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I improvised.”
“Adrian Blackwood improvises fake engagements?”
“Apparently once.”
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
The sound surprised both of us.
Then the ballroom doors opened.
Damian stood there.
His face was pale.
He had apparently heard enough.
“Ava.”
I turned.
His eyes moved to the envelope.
Then Adrian.
Then me.
“What did he mean by shareholder?”
Adrian said nothing.
This was mine.
For the first time, I realized he was deliberately leaving it mine.
I looked at Damian.
“You heard him.”
“You own Blackwood stock?”
“Apparently.”
“How much?”
I smiled.
“Damian.”
His face tightened.
“What?”
“Relax.”
I looked down at my champagne-soaked dress.
“It's just money.”
May you like
And for the first time that night—
Damian Cross wasn't laughing.
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