(Ava’s POV) My head throbbed, a dull, insistent ache that pulsed in time with the frantic beat of my heart. My eyes fluttered open, met by the unfamiliar sight of a luxurious hotel room. Sunlight streamed through the gap in the heavy drapes, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. A far cry from my cramped, barely-furnished apartment. Panic clawed its way up my throat. Where was I? And why was I… Completely naked. My gaze darted to the figure beside me, a man I didn’t recognize, his face obscured by a pillow. He was shirtless, the sheets tangled low on his hips. A wave of nausea washed over me, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. Oh God. Oh God, no. I scrambled out of bed, heart hammering against my ribs. The cold floor sent a jolt of awareness through my system, a stark reminder of the night’s monumental mistake. My clothes were scattered across the room, a trail of regrettable decisions leading back to this opulent prison. I snatched them up, dressing with a speed that bordered on frantic, my fingers fumbling with buttons and zippers. Every rustle of fabric felt deafening, as if I was announcing my escape to the entire world. I needed to get out, to disappear before he woke up, before I had to face the consequences of my actions. Thank God, I woke up before him. Adrenaline coursed through me as I grabbed my purse, silently thanking the heavens that I still had it. I didn’t dare look back as I crept towards the door, my bare feet soundless on the plush carpet. With a final, desperate glance at the sleeping stranger, I slipped out of the room, a thief in the broad light of day. Downstairs, I practically ran through the lobby, ignoring the curious glances of the impeccably dressed staff. I burst out onto the street, gulping in the fresh air as if it were the elixir of life. I hailed a cab, giving the driver my address with a shaky voice. As the taxi sped away from the hotel, I leaned back against the seat, closing my eyes. Shame, regret, and a potent dose of self-loathing washed over me. You’re probably wondering how I ended up in this situation. Well, buckle up, because it’s not a pretty story. It all started yesterday morning. The day began like any other, which is to say, chaotic. I was juggling three part-time jobs – freelance writing (barely paying the bills but at least I get to work on my laptop from anywhere), waitressing at a greasy diner, and “assisting” (read: babysitting) wealthy socialites with their shopping sprees. I wouldn’t say that I’m rebellious, but I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty to make ends meet. Yesterday happened to be “interview day”. I’d managed to score a rare opportunity – a legitimate, full-time writing position at a small publishing house. This could have been my ticket out of the daily grind, a chance to finally use my degree for something other than wiping up spilled coffee. Naturally, things didn’t go according to plan. I was rushing to the interview, latte in hand (a rare treat), when disaster struck. I rounded a corner and collided with a woman who looked like she’d stepped straight out of a glossy magazine. Think impeccably tailored suit, designer handbag, and a face that could curdle milk with a single glance. Of course, it was her coffee that ended up all over me. “Watch where you’re going!” she snapped, her voice dripping with disdain. She didn’t even bother to ask if I was okay, just glared at me as the hot liquid soaked through my already-cheap blouse. “I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, trying to salvage what was left of my dignity. “I didn’t see you.” Her eyes narrowed. “Clearly. You’ve ruined my day. And probably my blouse.” She surveyed me with a look of utter contempt, taking in my stained shirt and dishevelled appearance. “Honestly, some people…” And with that, she turned on her heel and swept away, leaving me standing there, covered in coffee and humiliation. Great. Just great. Needless to say, I didn’t make it to the interview. Not in that state. My carefully crafted resume and witty cover letter were now irrelevant. Another door slammed shut in my face. Defeated and broke (losing potentially the only full-time job I’ve ever had), I did what any self-respecting twenty-something would do: I went to a bar. And not just any bar, but the kind of place where the chandeliers sparkle brighter than my future prospects. “The Velvet Rope” was a place I usually avoided. It was where the city’s elite gathered to flaunt their wealth and pretend they weren’t bored out of their minds. But tonight, I needed the distraction, the illusion of belonging, even if it was just for a few hours. I found a dark corner and ordered a tequila. Then another. And another. Each shot was a temporary anesthetic, numbing the pain of rejection and the sting of reality. That’s when I saw him. He was sitting at the bar, nursing a glass of something amber and expensive-looking. Older, maybe late forties, with silver threading through his dark hair and eyes that held a disconcerting amount of intelligence. He exuded an air of quiet confidence, the kind that comes with power and privilege. He caught my eye and offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile. It was enough. We started talking. He had a voice like aged whiskey, smooth and intoxicating. He asked me about myself, and for some reason, I found myself being unusually candid. I told him about my dead-end jobs, my shattered dreams, my constant struggle to stay afloat. He listened intently, his gaze unwavering. There was something about him, a magnetic pull that drew me in despite my better judgment. He didn’t offer platitudes or empty promises, just a quiet understanding that resonated deep within me. The tequila flowed freely, blurring the lines between right and wrong. One drink led to another, and another. The conversation grew less coherent, more suggestive. He told me about his life, carefully edited to remove any trace of vulnerability. He never mentioned his name, nor did I. Soon, we were dancing, bodies pressed close under the dim lights. His touch was electric, igniting a fire I thought had long been extinguished. The music pulsed through me, drowning out the voice of reason in my head. The night was a blur of stolen kisses, whispered words, and escalating desire. He led me out of the club, into a waiting limousine. We drove to a hotel, a place of obscene luxury that made my head spin. And then… well, then things got hazy. There was a lot of skin, a lot of heat, a lot of reckless abandon. I lost my virginity to a man whose name I didn’t even know, in a hotel room that cost more than I made in a month. It was a mistake. A monumental, life-altering mistake. Now, back in my dingy apartment, the memory of the previous night hit me like a punch in the gut. The stranger’s face was still a blur, but the feeling of his touch, the taste of his lips, the sound of his voice – these were burned into my memory. I stumbled into the shower, scrubbing my skin raw in a desperate attempt to wash away the shame. But it was no use. The stain was permanent, etched onto my soul. As I stood there, shivering under the hot water, I knew one thing for sure: my life would never be the same. I know my life has always been chaotic but this is one thing I wished would be different; I wanted my first time to be with love not that kind of lust. But I had crossed a line, ventured into a world I didn’t belong in. And somehow, I had a feeling this was just the beginning of the trouble.
(Ava’s POV) The hangover from hell had finally loosened its grip, leaving behind only a dull, throbbing reminder of my tequila-fueled lapse in judgment. Losing my virginity wasn’t supposed to happen like that – sprawled in a ridiculously opulent hotel room, next to a man whose face I couldn’t even clearly recall. But dwelling on it was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Rent was due, and my boss, Mrs. Hathaway, had the patience of a hummingbird on caffeine. So, I shoved the memory of that night into a dark corner of my mind, locked the door, and threw away the key. Time to get back to the grind. And by “grind,” I mean the delightful reality of juggling three different jobs, each one more soul-crushing than the last. Today’s flavor of the week? “Personal shopping assistant.” Translation: professional hand-holder for bored, rich women who needed someone to tell them that yes, the $10,000 handbag did match their Louboutins. I’d worked weirder gigs – let’s just say my brief stint as a “dog whisperer” for a chihuahua with anxiety issues still sends shivers down my spine. I met Mrs. Van Derlyn, my assigned socialite for the day, at “Chic Boutique,” a place where the price tags had more digits than my bank account. She was a vision of platinum blonde hair, surgically enhanced everything, and an air of entitlement thick enough to choke on. “Darling,” she drawled, her voice dripping with disdain as she surveyed my outfit (a simple black dress and flats – practical for running around), “are you sure you’re qualified to advise me on matters of…fashion?” “Absolutely, Mrs. Van Derlyn,” I replied, plastering on my most winning smile. “I have a PhD in spotting overpriced fabric from a mile away. Shall we begin?” The morning was an agonizing blur of designer labels, endless fittings, and the constant refrain of “Does this make me look fat?” I swear, if I had a dollar for every time someone asked me that question, I could buy Chic Boutique and turn it into a soup kitchen. Then he walked in. Liam. He was tall, with that effortlessly tousled blond hair that screams “trust fund baby who spends his days surfing and pondering the meaning of life.” Bright brown eyes, a smattering of freckles across his nose, and a smile that could melt glaciers. He looked completely out of place amidst the sea of Botox and Birkins. He was browsing the men’s section, looking adorably lost. I excused myself from Mrs. Van Derlyn’s endless critique of a cashmere sweater – “It doesn’t scream ‘St. Barts,’ darling!” – and approached him. “Lost, are we?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light and professional. Inside, I was mentally calculating how much this accidental meeting would affect my current hourly pay. But hey, this is Liam we’re talking about. I’ve always had a thing for him and this is the first time I’m seeing him outside screen and posters. He jumped, startled. “Oh, uh, kind of. I’m supposed to be buying a birthday present for my dad, but I have no idea where to start.” “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” I said, gesturing around the store. “Chic Boutique is practically synonymous with ‘overpriced gifts for people who have everything.’” He laughed, a genuine, charming sound. “Exactly! I need something that says ‘I love you, Dad, but I also spent way too much money on this.’” And just like that, the afternoon took a turn for the better. Liam and I spent the next hour wandering through the store, me offering sarcastic commentary on the merchandise, him genuinely amused by my cynicism. He listened intently as I spun tales of my varied job history, completely unfazed by my slightly unhinged stories. He didn’t seem to care that I wasn’t from his world, a world of inherited wealth and social standing; he just seemed…interested. We settled on a ridiculously expensive watch – “It tells time and probably doubles as a small nuclear reactor,” I quipped – and as he paid, he turned to me, his smile hesitant. “Listen,” he said, “I know this is probably weird, but I’ve actually had a way better time shopping with you than I thought I would. Would you maybe want to grab coffee sometime? Or, you know, anything that doesn’t involve overpriced clothing.” My initial instinct was to say no. I was too busy, too broke, and frankly, too aware of the chasm that separated our lives. But then I looked into his bright, hopeful eyes, and the words caught in my throat. “Yeah,” I said, surprising myself. “I’d like that.” We exchanged numbers, and as I walked back to Mrs. Van Derlyn, who was now complaining about the thread count of a silk scarf, I couldn’t help but feel a spark of something I hadn’t felt in a long time – hope. Over the next few weeks, Liam and I lived a montage straight out of a rom-com I usually scoffed at while simultaneously secretly envying. It was absurd, fantastical, and, terrifyingly, intoxicating. Our first date, a dimly lit, impossibly chic Italian restaurant nestled in the heart of the city, set the tone. Everything, from the crisp linen tablecloths to the impossibly handsome waiter who looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine, screamed “expensive.” I felt a knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach as I scanned the menu, mentally translating the prices into hours of scrubbing toilets. “Relax,” Liam said, his voice low and reassuring. He caught my hand across the table, his touch sending a jolt of warmth up my arm. “Order whatever you want, Ava. Please.” I hesitated, then, against my better judgment, ordered the lobster ravioli. It was decadent, rich, and melted in my mouth like a dream. As I savored each bite, Liam regaled me with stories of his disastrous attempts at cooking, his self-deprecating humor putting me at ease. “So,” I said, after he’d finished a particularly hilarious anecdote about a kitchen fire involving a flambé gone wrong, “you’re telling me you’re practically helpless in the kitchen?” He grinned, his bright brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Absolutely. Consider it one of my many endearing qualities.” I laughed, genuinely, the sound echoing in the hushed atmosphere of the restaurant. “Endearing is one word for it. Incompetent is another.” “Hey!” he protested, feigning offense. “I have other talents. I can, for example, identify at least five different types of flowers.” “Impressive,” I deadpanned. “Useful in a post-apocalyptic world, I’m sure.” He chuckled, and I realized, with a start, that I was enjoying myself. Really enjoying myself. Then there was the art gallery, all stark white walls and pretentious whispers. Liam, surprisingly, knew his stuff. He guided me through the exhibits, explaining the nuances of brushstrokes and the symbolism hidden within abstract shapes. He didn’t talk down to me, or try to impress me; instead, he seemed genuinely excited to share his passion. “What do you think?” he asked, stopping in front of a massive canvas splashed with chaotic colors. I stared at it, trying to decipher the artist’s intent. “Honestly? It looks like a toddler had a paint fight.” Liam threw his head back and laughed. “You know, that’s probably not far off. But look closer. See the way the light catches the texture? The underlying tension in the composition?” He pointed out details I hadn’t noticed, helping me see the painting in a new light. It was like he was showing me a hidden world, revealing the beauty beneath the surface. The polo match was, as I suspected, utterly ridiculous. The outfits, the champagne, the sheer extravagance of it all… It felt like stepping into a movie scene. But Liam, bless his heart, seemed to understand my discomfort. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, as we took our seats in the VIP box. “You don’t actually have to understand what’s going on. Just nod politely and sip your champagne.” I raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you do?” He grinned. “Most of the time. Although, I do try to keep up with the actual game. My grandfather would have my head if I didn’t.” The game itself was a blur of galloping horses and shouting spectators. I pretended to understand the rules, occasionally clapping politely when everyone else did. The real entertainment, however, was watching Liam. He was animated, enthusiastic, explaining the intricacies of the game with a passion that was… endearing. Again. He was charming, attentive, and almost painfully earnest. He listened to my ramblings about my struggles, my dreams, my sarcastic observations about the world, with a patience that bordered on saintly. He remembered the smallest details – the name of my favorite coffee shop, my irrational fear of pigeons, the fact that I always took my tea with lemon but no sugar. He saw me. Or at least, he saw the me I presented to the world. He was also completely, utterly oblivious to the fact that I was basically a walking disaster zone, one wrong move away from my life completely falling apart. He saw the witty, independent girl who worked hard and spoke her mind. He didn’t see the girl who had a panic attack every time she checked her bank account, or the girl who spent her nights scrubbing toilets to make ends meet. He didn’t see the constant, gnawing anxiety that simmered beneath the surface, the fear that I was a fraud, a pretender in a world that didn’t belong to me. I pushed those thoughts down, buried them deep, and allowed myself to enjoy the fairytale. I was falling for Liam, hard.
(Ava’s POV) “Bottega Veneta,” I muttered under my breath, staring up at the minimalist facade. Of course. Where else would a trust fund baby like Liam suggest we “hang out”? Not my usual haunt, that’s for damn sure. My usual haunt involved thrift stores and strategically placed discount racks, not Italian leather goods priced higher than my monthly rent. Liam had called me earlier, his voice bubbling with excitement. He’d asked me to meet him, promising a “surprise.” A surprise that apparently involved maxing out my credit card just to look like I belonged. The dress I was wearing, a hand-me-down from a past babysitting client (yes, I “babysat” socialites too, sometimes the pay was worth the soul-crushing boredom), wouldn’t cut it in this viper pit of high fashion. Sucking in a deep breath, I plastered on my most convincing “I belong here” smile and pushed open the heavy glass door. The air inside was cool and sterile, smelling faintly of money and regret. Sales associates, dressed in outfits that probably cost more than my car, eyed me with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. I ignored them, scanning the room for Liam’s signature blond hair. He was easy to spot. He was standing near the display of handbags, gesticulating wildly while a slightly bewildered sales associate nodded along. He looked like a golden retriever puppy who’d somehow wandered into a museum. Adorable, albeit hopelessly out of place. “Ava!” he exclaimed, spotting me. His face lit up, and he rushed over, pulling me into a hug. “You look amazing!” I suppressed a snort. “Thanks, Liam. So, what’s this surprise you’ve been hinting at?” He grinned, that infuriatingly charming grin that made my stomach flip. “Patience, my dear. First, we need to find you something to wear.” My eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” He ran his hand through his hair, looking sheepish. “Nothing’s wrong, it’s just… this is a special occasion. And I want you to look, well, spectacular.” I crossed my arms, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “Liam, I’m perfectly comfortable. Besides, I can’t afford anything in this place.” “Don’t worry about the price,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s my treat.” And that’s when the internal alarm bells started clanging. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of him buying me things. It felt… complicated. Like accepting a down payment on my soul. Before I could protest, he grabbed my hand and dragged me towards a rack of dresses. He started pulling things out, holding them up for my inspection. Each dress was more extravagant than the last, dripping with sequins, feathers, and price tags that made my eyes water. “What about this one?” he asked, holding up a shimmering emerald green gown that looked like it belonged on a movie star. “Liam, that’s… beautiful, but completely impractical,” I said, trying to inject a dose of reality into his champagne-soaked world. “Where would I even wear that?” He shrugged. “To dinner? To the opera? To a private jet heading to the Maldives?” I stared at him. “Okay, you’re officially scaring me.” He laughed, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Trust me, Ava. Just try it on.” Reluctantly, I allowed him to lead me to a lavish dressing room. The dress fit perfectly, clinging to my curves in all the right places. I had to admit, I did look good. Like I belonged in this world of champagne wishes and caviar dreams. But it still felt…wrong. “See? I told you,” Liam said, bursting into the dressing room. His eyes widened when he saw me, and he let out a low whistle. “You look absolutely stunning.” I blushed, a sensation I hadn’t experienced in years. “It’s just a dress, Liam.” “It’s not just a dress,” he insisted, taking my hand. “It’s your dress. You have to wear it.” And so, I did. Leaving the boutique, I felt a strange mix of excitement and unease. The emerald green dress was nestled in a garment bag in the backseat of Liam’s ridiculously expensive sports car, a silent testament to my growing entanglement in his world. “So, where are we going?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “It’s a surprise,” he repeated, his eyes twinkling. “But I promise, you’re going to love it.” He drove for what felt like hours, through the city and out into the countryside. Finally, we arrived at a private airfield. My eyebrows shot up. “Are you serious?” He grinned. “Just a little further.” Before I could protest, he ushered me onto a helicopter. I’d never been in a helicopter before, and the initial rush of adrenaline quickly morphed into a queasy mix of excitement and terror. As we ascended, the world shrunk beneath us, transforming into a patchwork quilt of fields and forests. Liam turned to me, his expression serious. “Ava,” he said, taking my hand. “I know we haven’t known each other for very long, but… I feel something special between us. Something real.” My heart pounded in my chest. I knew what was coming. “I… I feel it too, Liam,” I whispered. He smiled, his eyes shining with happiness. “Then you won’t think I’m crazy if I say… I’m falling in love with you, Ava.” The words hung in the air, heavy with significance. I wanted to say them back, to confess my own burgeoning feelings. But something held me back. The fear, the guilt, the knowledge that my life was a tangled mess… Instead, I simply smiled and leaned in to kiss him. His lips were soft and warm, and as I closed my eyes, I allowed myself to forget, for just a moment, the complexities of my life. I allowed myself to believe in the fairytale. “Close your eyes,” Liam said softly, taking my hand. I hesitated, then obeyed. The rhythmic thumping of the helicopter blades filled my ears, and I focused on the warmth of his hand in mine. “Okay, open them, and look below.” he said. I opened my eyes and gasped. Below us, spread across a vast field of wildflowers, were the words: “Will You Be My Girlfriend?” To be more specific, the flowers were trimmed into the words. My heart leaped into my throat. This was insane. Over-the-top. Completely ridiculous. And yet… I couldn’t deny the flutter of happiness that bloomed in my chest. “Yes,” I whispered, tears welling up in my eyes. “Yes, I will.” He whooped with joy, pulling me into a tight hug. “I knew you would!” The helicopter landed on a manicured lawn in front of a sprawling vacation home that could easily house a small village. As we stepped out, I was greeted by the sight of a dozen or so people, all impeccably dressed and radiating an air of effortless wealth. Liam’s friends, apparently. The party had already started. The night was a blur of champagne, laughter, and forced conversation. I mingled with Liam’s friends, trying to navigate the treacherous waters of their social circles. They were polite enough, but I could sense the underlying scrutiny, the unspoken question hanging in the air: “Does she belong here?” One girl, a statuesque blonde, apparently named Chloe, cornered me near the pool. “So, Ava,” she said, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. “How did you and Liam meet?” I hesitated, wondering how much to reveal. I certainly wasn’t going to tell her about my job of assisting a shopping spree that led to our first encounter. “We met through a mutual friend,” I said, opting for a vague answer. “Really?” she purred. “How… fascinating.” I gave her a tight smile and excused myself, grabbing another glass of champagne. I needed it. I felt like an imposter, a cuckoo bird who’d somehow infiltrated the nest of a very privileged species. Despite my discomfort, I couldn’t deny that I was having fun. Liam was attentive and charming, constantly pulling me into conversations, making sure I felt included. He danced with me under the stars, his eyes locked on mine, and for a moment, I forgot all my reservations. I forgot about our different backgrounds, about the looming shadow of his family, about the fact that I was probably way out of my depth. But as the night wore on, a nagging feeling crept into my mind. A feeling that this was all too good to be true. That I was living in a fairytale that was destined to end badly. Later, as I lay in Liam’s arms in a bedroom that was bigger than my entire apartment, the feeling intensified. The opulent surroundings, the scent of expensive cologne clinging to the sheets, the knowledge that I was now officially Liam’s girlfriend – it all felt surreal. I looked at Liam, his face relaxed in sleep, and a wave of tenderness washed over me. I cared about him, maybe even loved him. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was playing a role, that I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t. And then, the memory of that night at the club flickered in my mind. The feel of Richard’s hand on my skin, the intensity of his gaze, the undeniable pull that I felt towards him. A wave of shame washed over me. How could I even think about another man when I was lying in Liam’s arms? I closed my eyes, trying to banish the image of that stranger from my mind. I had made a choice. I was with Liam now. And I would do everything in my power to make it work. I can’t let my reckless mistake make me lose a chance at a nice relationship. This, Liam, is what I’m supposed to have. Not reckless alcohol fueled sex with a nameless man in a club.
(Ava’s POV) I was elbow-deep in a pile of mismatched laundry when my phone buzzed on the rickety nightstand, vibrating like it was trying to escape the clutter of my one-bedroom apartment. The screen lit up with Liam’s name, and I hesitated for a second, staring at it like it was a snake about to strike. God, what now? Another spontaneous adventure? Don’t get me wrong, I loved the guy’s energy—hell, who wouldn’t? But sometimes, his world felt like it was spinning on a different axis, one where money grew on trees and problems dissolved in champagne bubbles. Me? I was still scraping by on tips from my last gig, bartending at that seedy underground club downtown where the patrons were more likely to throw punches than compliments. Yeah, that job had been a real gem—dodging grabby hands and mixing drinks strong enough to knock out a horse. Rebellious? Please, I’d practically patented it. But now, here I was, dating a billionaire’s son, and it was like I’d stumbled into a parallel universe where my past didn’t quite fit. And that’s because I can’t knock it out of my head to stop pretending that I’m not in for the money. I mean, I’m not in because of the money, I’ve had a thing for him even before there’s ever any hope of meeting him in person and now that I have him, I don’t want him to think I’m with him for his money so I’m stuck trying to pretend I’m very much okay without his support and even when he tries to help, I try to get him not to. Pathetic, I know. Sighing, I wiped my hands on my ratty old T-shirt—the one with the faded print of a motorcycle that I’d swiped from an ex who thought he was God’s gift to bad boys—and answered the call. “Hey, Liam,” I said, forcing a brightness into my voice that I didn’t entirely feel. “What’s up? Decided to buy another island or something?” His laugh came through the line, warm and effortless, like he was sipping something expensive while I was nursing a cheap coffee. “You’re hilarious, Ava. Always keeping me grounded. Listen, I’ve got something exciting to run by you. I want you to meet my parents.” The words hit me like a splash of ice water. Meet his parents? Oh, sure, because that sounded like a walk in the park. I glanced around my apartment—clothes strewn everywhere, a stack of overdue bills on the kitchen counter, and that lingering smell of last night’s takeout that I couldn’t quite scrub away. My stomach twisted into a knot. “Meet your parents? Like, the parents? As in, the ones who own more than half the city and probably have a wing dedicated to their designer shoe collection?” He chuckled again, but I could hear the hint of nervousness in it, like he was trying to play it cool. “Yeah, exactly. I’ve scheduled dinner for tonight at their place. It’s nothing fancy—just a quiet family thing. I think it’s time they get to know the amazing woman who’s stolen my heart. And let me just say they’re dying to meet you.” Stolen his heart? God, he was laying it on thick. I leaned against the wall, feeling the peeling paint under my fingers, and let out a sarcastic snort that I couldn’t quite suppress. “Liam, honey,” I said, trying to keep my voice even, “your ‘dying to meet me’ probably involves a background check, a personality assessment, and possibly a DNA sample, right? And oh, yeah, because I’m just the picture of poise and elegance. Liam, you do realize I’m the girl who once worked as an ‘assistant’ to a sketchy photographer who paid me in cash and compliments? You know, the kind where I had to pose in outfits that made me question my life choices just to make rent. High society material, right here.” There was a pause on his end, and I could almost picture him frowning, that perfect brow creasing in confusion. “Ava, come on. You’re incredible. Don’t sell yourself short. My parents will love you. Just wear something nice, okay? I’ll pick you up at seven. Trust me, it’ll be fine.” Trust him. That was rich. I hung up the phone and stared at my reflection in the cracked mirror above my dresser, poking at the dark circles under my eyes. Nice? What the hell did “nice” even mean in his world? A ballgown? Diamonds? I rifled through my closet, which was basically a sad collection of thrift-store finds and a couple of outfits I’d splurged on after one too many tequila shots. There was that little lavender dress I’d worn to that disastrous job interview a few weeks back—the one where some ice queen had spilled coffee all over me and ruined everything. Yeah, that memory still stung, but I shoved it aside. Rebellious or not, I wasn’t about to let some rich bitch dictate my life. Still, I had to look the part tonight, didn’t I? Couldn’t show up looking like I just crawled out of a dive bar, even if that’s exactly where I felt most at home. I spent the next hour tearing through my wardrobe like a woman possessed. Everything felt wrong. The red cocktail dress was too flashy—it reminded me of that time I bartended at a private party for some tech bro’s birthday, where the guests got so wasted they started an impromptu strip poker game. I’d played along, smirking through it all, because hey, tips were tips, and I wasn’t afraid to flirt my way to a better night. But this? This was different. Liam’s family wasn’t some rowdy crowd; they were the elite, the untouchables. Finally, I settled on a simple navy blue wrap dress that hugged my curves just right—classy enough to pass muster, I hoped, without screaming “impoverished waitress trying too hard.” I paired it with heels that pinched my toes and a necklace I’d lifted from a flea market, the kind of place where you haggled with vendors who looked like they’d just escaped a heist movie. Makeup? I went minimal, just a swipe of red lipstick for that rebellious edge, the kind that said, “I might look presentable, but don’t mistake me for tame.” Because I wouldn’t want them to think their son is with some naive little bit*h, people in the business world like the wild card. I could have easily worn one of the few dresses I let Liam buy for me but I wouldn’t want him to think my whole closet is just his money. By the time I was done, I barely recognized myself. My hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, but strands kept escaping, framing my face like they were rebelling right along with me. I glanced at the clock—six forty-five. My heart was pounding, a mix of excitement and dread. Liam’s world was all helicopters and handwritten proposals in flower fields, while mine was late-night shifts and dodging bill collectors. What if they saw right through me? What if they took one look and decided I was just another gold-digger from the wrong side of the tracks? Sarcasm bubbled up in my thoughts: Oh, please, Ava, you’re not that lucky. They’d probably just pity you. The doorbell rang at exactly seven, and I took a deep breath before answering. There he was, Liam, looking every bit the prince in his tailored suit, his eyes lighting up when he saw me. “Wow, Ava. You look stunning.” I rolled my eyes, but smiled anyway. “Flattery will get you everywhere, I suppose. Let’s get this over with before I chicken out and hide under my bed.” He laughed and offered his arm, leading me to his sleek black car waiting outside. The drive to his parents’ estate was a blur of city lights and winding roads, my mind racing with every passing mile. We chatted about nothing—his day, my work—but underneath it all, I could feel the tension building. The city gave way to gated communities, and soon we were pulling up to a massive wrought-iron gate that swung open like it was welcoming royalty. The house—mansion, really—was a sprawling beast of glass and stone, lights twinkling from every window like it was trying to outshine the stars. As we walked up the marble steps, my heels clicking against the stone, I felt a surge of defiance. So what if I didn’t belong? I’d survived worse. That time I temped as a “consultant” for a underground art collective, posing for risqué portraits that probably still hung in some sleazy gallery, had taught me that. I wasn’t some fragile flower; I was a survivor, with a streak of wildness that no amount of money could tame. Liam squeezed my hand as we entered the grand foyer, where a chandelier hung like a constellation of diamonds. “Relax,” he whispered. “They’ll love you.” Yeah, right. We were led into a dining room that looked like it belonged in a museum—crystal glasses, silverware that probably cost more than my rent for a year, and a table long enough to host a small army. And there they were: his parents, seated at the head of the table like thrones in a kingdom. Vivian, his mother, was impeccably dressed in a sleek black ensemble that screamed old money, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, her eyes as cold as a winter storm. And beside her, his father, Richard—a man with salt-and-pepper hair, sharp features, and an aura that screamed power and mystery. My breath caught in my throat as I took them in. Liam made introductions, his voice cheerful, oblivious to the storm brewing in my chest. “Mom, Dad, this is Ava.” Vivian turned her gaze on me, and it was like a slap to the face. Those eyes—I knew them. The coffee spill, the ruined interview, the way she’d looked at me like I was beneath her. My mind flashed back to that morning: me, rushing to what could have been my big break, only for her to “accidentally” knock her scalding drink all over my only decent blouse. I’d been late, furious, and if she’d just smirked and walked away, it would have been better than blaming me, yelling at me. Now, here she was, extending a hand that I shook on autopilot, my fingers trembling. “Nice to meet you,” I managed, my voice dripping with sarcasm that I couldn’t fully hide. “I feel like we’ve crossed paths before, haven’t we?” Her lips curled into a polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Have we? I’m sure I don’t recall.” Liar. But before I could dwell on it, my eyes shifted to Richard. And that’s when the world tilted on its axis. Him. The stranger from the club. The man whose face had haunted my dreams since that tequila-soaked night. He was standing there, sophisticated and quietly powerful, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made my skin prickle. Those eyes—dark, knowing, the same ones that had stripped me bare in that hotel room. I felt a rush of heat, a forbidden spark that ignited something deep inside me, something wild and reckless. We shared a charged, silent moment, the air between us thickening with unspoken memories. His expression flickered—surprise, desire, something darker—and I knew, in that instant, that he recognized me too.
Ava’s POV I swallowed hard, my sweatiy hands. My dress clung to me tighter than it had before, as if it too felt the secrets that I held and was determined to suffocate them out of me. Liam’s throat cleared, his voice slicing through the stifling quiet. “Shall we get dinner underway?” We all gave one another quick looks, a unspoken pact floating around the room like a promise—we would all be angels tonight, if only for an evening. Nobody wanted to be the one to light the match that would burn this building down. The walk to the dining room was slow, intentional. The house was too quiet, every step muffled by the luxurious rugs on the floor. We entered a room that was as opulent as it seemed from every angle. Chandeliers suspended low above a huge table covered in cream linen and littered with crystal glasses, candles, and pristine cutlery in cold rows. I had barely gone to sit when Liam grasped my hand. “Come along. I want to show you round my garden,” he said. I blinked. “Now?” He nodded. His grasp was warm, firm but not clammily possessive. We walked down the hall and outside to a narrow, stone walkway lined with soft twilight on all sides. The garden was almost magical. Filmy fairy lights strung between leaning branches. Lavender and roses filled the air with calming sweetness, and wild strawberries grew in a line alongside a marble bench. A tiny, babbling fountain hummed softly in the background. “This is where I come when I’m stressed,” Liam said. “It’s beautiful.” He looked down at me, his gaze gentle. “Like you.” I nervously laughed. “You’re cheesy.” “You like cheese,” he teased, poking my ribs. I swatted his hand away. “I like mozzarella.” “Mozzarella it is. I’ll remember that.” We moved a little further along, me tracing my fingertips along petals as if they would give me the courage to speak. He stood in front of me and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear before crouching down to drop a feather-soft kiss on my forehead. “You’re going to be fine tonight,” he whispered. I smiled, but my gut churned. How do you tell your boyfriend you slept with his dad in a nightclub bathroom? You don’t. We walked back into the dining hall. The moment we walked in, I was hit with a wave of warm, scented air. The food was already out. I stared. There were porcelain plates with the thinnest edge of gold and the food which seemed to be yanked out of a food magazine. There were slices of medium-rare beef that were glazed with red wine reduction, topped with edible violets and shavings of truffle. There was golden mash beside it, piped in fine swirly patterns. There were carrots that were roasted and shone literally as if they had been dusted with gold. And of course, side dishes: balsamic-glazed mushrooms, prosciutto-wrapped asparagus, and some beet carpaccio something. This was my non-fancy dinner? I sat down, grumbling softly, “Thank you,” to Vivian, who was already seated, lip curled into a contained smile. It was the kind of smile that was challenge. The clinking of the forks and knives began. I stared at the array of knives and forks on my plate like they were alien tools. So much for not-so-fancy. I picked up a random fork and knife and dove into the steak. It was mushy, too mushy. I barely chewed, not really looking at anyone in particular. Vivian cleared her throat. “Where did you go to school, dear?” Her voice was honey, but her winter eyes cut into me like knives. While she talked, a maid beside her was daintily cutting up her steak into small chewable pieces. I swallowed hard. “I. I went to a community college, in Portland.” She slowly blinked. “Oh. That’s odd. I thought someone as. calm as you would’ve attended a more. expensive school.” My jaw clenched. “It was the best option for me at the time.” “Hmm. And where are your parents, sweetie? I bet they just have to be so proud.” My heart tightened. I squirmed in my seat, attempting to plaster on a gracious smile. “They died when I was seventeen.” A silence. An awkwardly long pause. “Oh,” she said. “How awful.” Her voice dripped with insincere sympathy, but her eyes didn’t. In front of me, Richard painstakingly spooned himself a bite of something, never looking away from me. Those deep blue eyes burned into mine with that same hungry interest I’d noticed the night at the club. He remembered. He must remember. “Tell me, Liam,” Richard finally spoke, his lips brushing away a droplet of something from the corner of his mouth with a silk napkin. “How did you come to meet such a sweet thing?” His gaze didn’t falter. Liam smiled, unaware of the undercurrent. “We were at an art exhibition in the city. She was staring at this abstract of grief and we just started talking.” “Ah,” Richard reflected, his voice as smooth as the wine before him. “Of course. There’s always glamour in mourning.” I was definitely roasted, I told myself, attempting not to choke on a delicate forkful of mashed potatoes. My mind desperately cycled through potential answers to questions I hadn’t even been asked yet. “And what do you do nowadays, Ava?” Vivian asked, sipping from her own glass as if sitting upon her throne. “I do freelance editing in publishing,” I replied. “How cute.” I played with my glass. She had a way of making anything sound like a backhanded compliment. “Vivian,” Liam warned softly. She threw up her hands in pretended defeat. “Desperate to know. We know so little about her.” “Maybe she’s elusive,” Richard added, eyes shining. Oh, he was enjoying himself. The rest of dinner was a blur of suppressed jabs and thick compliments. I responded as well as I could, smiled uncomfortably, and hoped the evening would end soon. When dessert arrived—a rose sorbet on a mound of spun sugar—I was already halfway out of it in my head. Finally, Liam stood and offered his hand. “Shall we go back in?” I nodded, setting down my napkin, all of me aching to be free of the smothering air. We walked back together, his hand crossing over mine. But even as we made our way to his room, my brain was not quiet. It was screaming. Because this was no longer awkward. This was war, covered in velvet. And I was already drowning in the River of denial.
Ava’s POV Dinner had been. lovely, I suppose. Not that I was in fact able to taste anything. Every time I lifted my fork, my fingers trembled as if they belonged to someone else. I prodded the steak, chewed unenjoyed, and sipped champagne as if I needed it to numb my senses. Perhaps I did. For when I wasn’t trying to convince myself that I belonged at that disgustingly perfect table, I was catching his eye. Richard. Astronomically upright. Too perfect to be real. His very presence seemed to demand deference. He looked like a man who belonged in a marble museum, preserved in some ancient statue. That unyielding jaw, the sweep of his watch encircling his wrist as though he knew it was too expensive. The way he gazed at me like he was certain. Every time our gazes met, my veins turned cold. It was a glance that had the potential to freeze a blizzard or set one off. He looked at me like I was prey. Like he was waiting to pounce. And I hated how my body reacted to that. The maids began clearing plates, moving quietly with trained ease. I watched my glass, stirred the last liquid with a hand that still trembled. Just breathe, Ava. Just smile. Play along like you belong here. Like you’re not dying inside. Richard stood up and grumbled something about an work call. The words never even reached my ears, but his voice—that smooth, low, silk-on-steel voice—stroked the inside of my cranium like a memory I didn’t have the energy to deal with. I closed my eyes and blinked. Flashbacks thrashed around inside my head—the scent of expensive cologne, soft blankets, that same voice against my skin, whispering things neither of us were going to actually follow through on. God. I shouldn’t have come in here. I shouldn’t have made Liam love me. I shouldn’t have crossed his father. Liam’s arm was across my waist, gently tracing soothing circles on my skin as though he knew I was disintegrating. And maybe he did. His gentleness humbled me in small, shameful ways. And then I sensed it. A glare. I glanced up and Vivian—Liam’s wife, his mom—was glaring at me from across the room like she could incinerate me with a single look. Her face was lovely, unlined, composed, and yet she stood there as though she had strangled men with sharper words than swords. She held out one finger. A summons to discipline. There were no words. Just that small gesture that spoke volumes. I tensed. Did she know? Was this it? Would she peel my skin off in front of the maids and hang it up like a coat? I glared at Liam, even still distracted by whatever he was conversing with a servant about. He didn’t pay it any mind. I stood up. Time seemed to be standing still walking towards her. My heels were like sirens blaring through on the marble floors, and every step seemed like a journey to the gallows. Vivian smiled up at me. Too wide. Too big. As if she was going to eat me for breakfast and had the nerve to be proper while doing so. She grasped my hands, and they were warm and strong. She gripped them the way you would a long-lost friend, friendly visitors reconciling again. “We might have gotten off on the wrong foot,” she said, her smile still firm, her eyes not upon me—but upon her son. “Walk with me?” I numbly nodded. Her grip tightened. She led me down a narrow hall lined with paintings that probably cost more than my entire college education. The moment we rounded a corner and were out of view, her smile disappeared. I felt it before I noticed it. The change. The chill. She released my hand with a flip like I was something sticky. “Let’s get one thing straight plain, Ava,” she told me, her voice level, smooth, like silk covered with poison. “You may have gotten over Liam, and heaven only knows that boy had a weakness for things that were broken. But you won’t get over me.” I attempted to speak. She raised a hand. “Don’t speak until I say you can. It ruins the illusion.” “No” is all I closed. She stepped closer, her heels clicking. She reeked of jasmine and disapproval. “You’re not one of us,” she said. “I don’t care how beautiful you are. I don’t care how pathetic your big eyes are when you need someone to rescue you. You’re still just a girl with a tawdry past and a rented gown.” I balled my fists, but kept quiet. Vivian tilted her head to one side, studying me like I was a counterfeit designer purse. “Do you have any idea what sort of family this is? What sort of name my son has? We don’t marry women like you. We help them. We make them scrub. And then we throw them away.” Her smile flashed back on, cold and hard. “Then indulge in your little fantasy for as long as you can. Wear the pearls, sip the champagne, pretend you belong. But here’s the thing: if you ever have one moment’s notion that you’re going to claw your way up my son—” She leaned in, her breath against my cheek. “I will destroy you. Quietly. Elegantly. The kind of destruction you won’t even know until you’re half-way down the drain.” I swallowed. She leaned against me, running a ring against her finger. “You’ll wake up in some motel room, wondering where your job went, where your money went, why your rent bounced. And then you’ll remember me.” Her smile returned softer than before, and she wrapped her arm around mine as if we were two ladies out for a leisurely stroll. “Now,” she said with an air of innocence, “should we go back before Liam starts worrying?” I nodded. I didn’t believe my voice. We walked into the dining room like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t threatened to ruin my entire life with a fake smile and a bruising hold. Liam looked up and smiled, that sweet, unaware smile that hurt my heart. I sat next to him and smiled. My throat hurt. I caught Richard’s gaze once more. He had returned, reclining in his chair, fingers sedately rotating his wine. He gazed at me. He knew. Perhaps he knew it all. I turned my head. The room around me dissolved. And all I could keep thinking was: I am in such trouble.
Ava’s POV The night air outside was cooler than I expected, crisp even, what a slap back to reality. The silence between me and Liam was palpable the second we stepped out of the mansion. We did not talk as we moved towards his sleek black car, the only sounds to our walk being the soft chirp of night insects and the crunch of our shoes on the gravel driveway. Liam muttered a half-hearted “thank you” to his parents as we departed, but his tone was dry, clipped. His usually handsome face was contorted into a scowl that etched deep grooves in his skin. I didn’t have to guess what he was thinking—I could see it. The tension of dinner clung to us both like a second skin. He opened the passenger door for me, and I got in, not so much because it was romantic, but through habit by now. He got in beside me a few seconds later, the car starting up with a soft hum. But he didn’t move immediately. He simply sat there, staring blankly through the windshield as though the road ahead of us had suddenly vanished. “I apologize for what she said,” he muttered after some time, voice low and thick with frustration. My eyes twitched as I fought to keep my face neutral, even if my mind wasn’t. I tilted my head to look at him, a soft smile on my lips. “It’s fine.” Because it was. I was used to it—the looking down, the looks which contained a bit too much length when I spoke of where I came from or what I did for a living. The polite but definite moving away. Vivian was no different; she just happened to wrap her disdain in lace and pearls. “No,” he said, finally looking at me. “It’s not all right. She crossed a line.” I shook my head, letting out a slight laugh, more out of nerves than amusement. “Liam, it’s fine, I promise.” But it wasn’t. Not entirely. I could still sense Vivian’s voice in my ears, cutting like a winter wind, the venom underneath her words veiled in propriety. The way her hand tightened on mine progressively harder as she pulled me farther from Liam’s view. The brutal elegance in her tone. “You seem like a nice girl,” she had said to me. “But niceness will only take one so far.” I had just stood there, quiet, still, and let her slice me up with a smile still plastered on her perfectly made-up lips. “My son doesn’t need. complications. And certainly not someone who looks at the world like it’s still a dream they haven’t woken up from. He needs structure. He needs someone who knows which fork to use for which course, not someone who’s learning to navigate fine society like it’s their first time in a museum.” I was certain I’d stopped breathing by then. And the cherry on top? The gentle touch of her fingers against my cheek as she leaned in, her perfume floral and suffocating. “Stay in your world, dear. Don’t mistake a friendly invite for belonging.” And she turned and walked away like she hadn’t just shattered something inside of me. In the car once more, Liam had finally exited the parking lot. The cozy but not quiet silence was back. The kind that has too many things left unsaid. “Do you want to grab coffee tomorrow? Before your shift?” he tried, his voice hesitant. I gazed at him, really gazed at him. His jaw was tight, fists gripped around the steering wheel like it was keeping him there. He was trying to make everything okay again. Sweet, even. Like coffee would erase tonight. But I couldn’t. I needed space. I needed distance. I needed to be able to breathe without fearing that somebody was going to come along and remind me how much farther I had to go to deserve any of this. I slowly shook my head. “I think I’ll pass.” He blinked, surprise appearing on his face. “Oh. Okay. You sure?” “Yeah,” I said again, this time more quietly. “I just… need a little time. To think.” Liam didn’t push. He never had. We pulled into my apartment complex a few minutes later. He walked me to the door as usual, his hand brushing against mine in a last attempt to bridge the distance between us. But I was already halfway gone. “Goodnight, Ava.” “Goodnight, Liam.” And on that note, I stepped inside and let the door close behind us. Not with a bang, not with finality. But with the gentle sort of sadness that creeps in your bones and has you wondering what the hell you’re doing. I rested my back against the door for a moment, the silence of my apartment closing around me like a heavy blanket. And then, finally, I exhaled. A long, trembling breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding. What had I gotten myself into? A family that probably wanted nothing to do with me . A boyfriend whose world was worlds away from my own. And a man—Richard—whose eyes still haunted me, still gazed at me with that look, as if he knew exactly who I was underneath the polite smiles and shaky confidence. I went across to the window and pulled the curtain back a bit. Liam’s car was still sitting there, its brake lights glowing red like dying embers. And then, slowly, they died out into the night. I didn’t cry. But something within me shattered. Maybe it was the reality of it all. The stark clarity that Vivian had laid out for me on a silver platter. The kind of clarity that said: You don’t fit in here. And no matter how nicely you dress or how much you strive, someone like me will always recognize someone like you for precisely what you are. I moved from the window and headed to the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of water as my hands shook. As the icy water slid down my throat, my mind yet again drifted back to dinner. To the way Richard’s eyes wouldn’t leave mine. To the way a glimmer of recognition sparked. To the unspoken words. He remembered. I was sure of it. And now I was involved in something I wasn’t quite sure I could describe. An affair I wished to terminate, a boyfriend I was falling for, and a family who could swallow me whole and spit me back out in pearls and Prada. I climbed into bed that night, still in the same dress. The silk was creased now and stuck to me like remorse. I lay there and stared at the ceiling until my eyes stung, my head a jumble of what-ifs and maybe-nots. I didn’t sleep. Not really. Because some truths, once awakened, don’t let you rest. And this truth? It was only just beginning.
Ava’s POV The boisterous bang on the door roused me from bed, a dogged thud that echoed through my small apartment like a warning. I opened one eyelid and rolled over toward the beat-up alarm clock crudely plastered on my nightstand. 6:30 AM. Come on. I wasn’t due to wake up for another half-hour. Who in the world was disturbing me so early? The knock echoed again, louder, more insistent. I ripped the blanket from my body in a sigh and lurched to the door in a mess of rumpled ringlets and mispaired pajamas. My body complained, each muscle aching from tension and sleep deprivation. I turned the latch and opened the door just a little way to look at who it was. Mrs. Hathaway. My landlady. And she did not look pleased. Her wiry white hair had been pulled back into a messy bun, and her face was scrunched up into that characteristic frown she assumed whenever she had ill tidings to impart. Or rent to collect. “Ava,” she declared, without even a good morning. “I don’t want to wake you, but I have to talk to you about the rent.” I gulped down the lump forming in my throat. Shit. “Mrs. Hathaway, I. I know I said that I would pay by Friday,” I began, huddling closer into the blanket. “I’m just not quite there yet. I need a little more time.” She raised one of her well-groomed brows, arms crossed tightly across her chest. “Time doesn’t pay the bills, darling. You’ve been three months late on the trot. I like you, Ava. I truly do. But I operate a business here, not a charity.” I nodded seriously, heart plummeting even further. “I’ll get it together. I promise.” She drew a breath, her face relaxing infinitesimally. “You have until Monday. After that. I’ll have to start looking for someone else.” And with that, she’d turned and disappeared down the hallway. I closed the door slowly, back against it, letting the silence wrap around me like a thick blanket. I had five days. Five days to come up with rent that I didn’t have. I couldn’t afford to freak out. Not now. Instead, I prepared for my shift My restaurant shift was nothing to write home about. It was the same drab routine of courteous smiles, sore feet, and the acrid scent of burnt coffee inextricably printed on my uniform. Morning dragged like a slow-moving old dog, and I found myself checking my phone more often than usual. At 10:43 AM, I got the alert. Service booked: Personal Shopper – Upper Manhattan | Client: Unlisted Great. Here we go again. I sneaked into the bathroom and changed into my second outfit—a cream-colored blouse with puffy sleeves, black skinny jeans, and low heels. Something professional-looking enough to blend in with the upper classes without being too obvious. I pulled my hair back into a low, smooth ponytail and added some lip gloss. I appeared.acceptable. Like someone who actually did exist in a department store rather than vacuuming crumbs off diner booths. I checked the address. The same exclusive neighborhood I was becoming too acquainted with. The neighborhood where penthouses kissed the clouds and your next-door neighbors probably owned islands. I got on the train, backpack clutched at my side. The ride was short but crowded with commuters. I kept my head down, flipping through crumpled receipts and preparing myself to nod, smile, and carry overpriced things I’d never be able to buy in a lifetime, let alone five. By the time I arrived, the city up there was another world—quiet, spotless, and so horribly clean I felt like a blot on a sheet of white paper just to be able to walk the street. I approached the doorman of the glass high-rise building and extended the phone on which I had the confirmation of the booking. He barely glanced at it before he nodded. “Penthouse. Use the private elevator.” Of course. The private elevator. I entered the building, hit by icy air and a trace of eucalyptus smell. The marble floor was so polished I could see myself, distorted and ordinary. I entered the elevator, pressing the lighted button that had “PH.” The moment I stepped inside the room, I forgot how to breathe. It was walking into a dream you were never a part of. Everything glittered. The floors—polished marble—reflected the huge chandelier above like still water. The scent in the air wasn’t air freshener or perfume. It was something richer. Clean. Cold. Like money and power had a smell, and this house had bathed itself in it. I wasn’t new to wealth—not after being in Liam’s world—but this… This was different. Liam’s house was warm. Expensive but lived in. This one? It was as if even the walls were told not to speak too much. It was all perfect and calculated. A display. A reminder that I didn’t belong here. There was a velvet chair in the corner of the foyer, right beneath a painting that probably cost more than my entire apartment building. I eyed it warily. I didn’t know if I was allowed to sit. People like this… they would probably claim I was getting my “filth” on their custom-upholstered furniture. So I remained standing. Hands clasped in front of me. Stomach in knots. I’d been called here for a personal shopping request. Easy does it, right? Except nothing in my life was easy anymore. I tried to breathe and ignore the way my skin crawled. As if something was going to happen. Something bad. I stared stiffly ahead, praying silently I was wrong. And then… Footsteps. Slow, measured, self-assured. From the top of the stairs, striding down like this was a movie and he was the scene-stealer, came Richard Lancaster. My jaw dropped. No. God, no. He wore a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the top two buttons undone as if he couldn’t be bothered with formality. His navy tailored slacks looked effortless. A designer watch clung to his wrist as he shifted it, never once looking rushed or surprised. I tried not to meet his gaze. Please don’t look at me. Please don’t remember. But then he saw me, and something shifted. His lips curved upward—not quite a smile, but the threat of a well-rehearsed line about to be delivered. “Oh,” he said, voice as smooth as the whiskey I’d once tasted in his presence. “You’re here. Finally.” Finally? My heart skipped a beat. He walked past me like I wasn’t the same girl he had kissed with hungry eyes. Like I hadn’t sobbed in the bathroom after realizing I had kissed a man whose son I was currently dating. He walked through the house like he owned the very air I was inhaling. He fidgeted with his watch again as he glanced towards the kitchen. “I was hoping you’d make it on time,” he continued, casually. “I needed a personal shopper. Planning to get some gifts for a charity event I’m hosting later tonight.” I stared at him, lips parted, heart banging on the inside of my ribs like it wanted to escape this whole scene. He looked so normal. So calm. Like I hadn’t been introduced to his family two nights ago as Liam’s girlfriend. I wanted to scream. To reach out and grab him by that designer collar and ask him what the heck this was. A test? A punishment? A game? Instead, I managed, barely, “I’m sorry, sir. But. I don’t think I’ll be able to do this assignment.” He stopped in his tracks. Slowly turned to me, one eyebrow rising in amusement—no, challenge. “And why not?” he asked, crossing his arms loosely. “I believed we would be professional, Miss Ava.” I swallowed. Professional. As if we did not have that night. As if he had not watched me sit next to his son, blush under his gaze, try to keep myself in one piece while his wife cut into steak and my dignity like it was a five-course meal. “I just don’t think this is right,” I muttered, refusing to look at him. “Rubbish,” he replied casually. “You’re working. I’m a client. That’s all this is.” He walked into the living room, beckoning me to follow. I hovered in the doorway, unsure. This was a horrible idea. The worst. But my legs moved me in despite myself. The room was just as opulent. Cream and gold colors. Dark wood beams that looked heavy. Everything had weight and substance. Even the throw pillows looked like they came with a trust fund. Richard poured himself a coffee from a shiny new machine that probably cost more than my annual rent. “Sit down,” he said, not turning. I didn’t sit. “I… don’t think I should.” He chuckled deep in his throat. My eyes went wide. what was going on?. He drank and turned, leaning back against the marble counter with a casual propping of hip. “I figured you’d be more relaxed by now. But I guess I was wrong.” His tone was playful, but the undertone wasn’t. It never was. Richard Lancaster’s words were always mixed with some dark alloy of menace and charm. Like poison in gold. “Look,” I finally said, stepping forward. “I didn’t know… that night… who you were.” He waved his hand in a lazy motion. “Let’s not go back there.” “But—” “We’ve both moved on, haven’t we?” No. I hadn’t. I’d barely begun to process. “I’m dating your son,” I whispered like it made a difference. “And he isn’t aware of us,” Richard said matter-of-factly, setting the cup down. “So let’s not complicate things.” My blood went cold. Us? There was no us. There was just a stupid night. A drunken kiss. A horrible twist of fate that landed me in his family like a cruel joke. He walked by me again, closer now. I smelled his cologne. Rich, woodsy, overpowering. “I’ll e-mail you the list,” he said. “I need the items by tonight. It’s important.” I nodded automatically. He stopped in the doorway and looked back. “Oh,” he added, slightly smiling. “Welcome to the family. You’re doing well so far.” And then he was gone. I stood there. Frozen. What on earth was happening?
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