Julian stretches out a hand, standing outside the car. We're parked with the line of cars just outside the red carpet, with bright flashes from paparazzi cameras going off. 

My palm is sweaty, and I'm starting to lose the tiny courage that brought me all the way. I hesitate, glancing over his shoulder at the people walking the carpet. 

Rich. Filthy wealthy. They look it. Not playing a part-like me in a dress I could never afford, even if I worked nonstop for a year and saved every last cent. 

"You're not chickening out, are you?" Julian murmurs. 

I turn to him, my lashes fluttering quickly as I try to hide the truth.

He looks back and sighs dramatically, shaking his head. Then he leans closer, his voice dropping. "If you think you don't belong, then you're wrong, Alina. I promise you, all these people care about is bragging about how much they have and how much they can get away with." He dips his head, so much closer that I can smell his cologne. 

It's something expensive, a smoky oud scent guaranteed to turn heads. But I know he'd get attention even if he smelled like raw beef. 

He shakes his palm. "Come on, Alina. Don't you want to live a little? Drink expensive champagne and eat overpriced caviar? I'm sure you've thought about it before-watching rich people make a fool of themselves while you enjoy the food they refuse to eat because they're pretending to be healthy?" 

He winks at me. "I'll give you all the inside gossip if you say yes." 

A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. He grins. "There you go. Come-I'll offer you my arm. It's time you have the spotlight." 

I place my fingers in his palm, slipping a leg out and then the other, with sparkly designer shoes on my feet. Julian offers the crook of his arm. I take it, and we walk together. 

The response is immediate. 

It starts with a hush. Someone points at Julian, drawing some attention. Then I see the brief frown as their eyes land on me. The unspoken, "Who is she?"  Another turns and soon enough, there's a swarm of paparazzi trying to take our pictures. 

"Give them your best smile. You're going to be plastered all over social media tomorrow," Julian whispers. 

I manage to hide my shock, plastering a smile on my face as I try to look through the glaring flashes. Julian waves a bit, smiling like a man who knows he's desirable, before ushering us into the building. 

My jaw drops. 

The interior is...beyond words. No expense was spared in the design, from the hanging chandeliers twinkling softly overhead to the large drapes flowing like water and the ice crystal display in the middle of the ballroom. I glimpse the bar over at the east, like something carved out of glass, floating higher than the rest of the room. Light, in different colors, pours out with transparent fog from behind the counter. 

"That-" Julian points, a smile in his voice, "-was my idea." 

I turn, my brows squeezed. "Yours?" 

He nods. "Yup. I told you Adrian gave me the bar I'd been asking for to watch over you. But I do more than that. I handle the social and entertainment aspect of Hawthorne Industries. I have a few other bars and clubs, so it was easy for the host to ask for my services." 

I nod slowly, exhaling in awe. "It's amazing." 

"Julian Hawthorne." 

A blonde woman, with a shimmering black dress and a dark shade of red on her lips, saunters over to us. She spares me a brief glance-her gaze tightening-before turning to him. Her red shines as she pouts, touching his arm. "You promised you'd call. I've been waiting for a week." 

The tips of his ears turn red as he glances at me, and he laughs sheepishly. "Sorry," he mutters. 

I shake my head, disengaging my hand. "Nope. It's fine. I didn't think you were going to chaperone me all night. I can take care of myself." 

"Are you sure?" 

No. But the blonde is giving me the stink eye, and I have a feeling if I don't leave, I'm going to be hearing a lot about Julian's sex life. "Eugh," I mutter under my breath, already dreading it. 

I slap a smile across my face as I flick my wrist. "Go. Go on. Even if you decide to play chaperone, I don't want to be an unwilling third wheel." 

Relief washes over his face. He leans in suddenly, kissing my cheek. "I want you to have fun, okay? Try the Boulevardier. And for heaven's sake, don't let the thought of my brother stop you from flirting with a stranger. You're not married to him." 

My lips part, but nothing comes out. What was I going to say to that anyway? Julian slides an arm around the blonde's waist, leading her away. I roll my eyes as he leans into her, whispering something in her ear that makes her giggle. 

The bile returns to my throat. 

I need a drink. 

I walk over to the bar, taking the small crowd of people. The wealthiest of New York, in well-tailored suits, shiny dresses, statement pieces, and designer clothes. My stepfather would've given an arm to be here.

It was part of the things he rambled on about when he was drunk and couldn't understand how dirt poor we were. His grand idea-having a house featured in Architectural Digest, dining with the wealthy, and making everybody who looked down on him pay for their insolence. 

He had lofty dreams. 

I never had any delusions about who I was. I wanted to graduate college, get a job, rent a small, nice apartment, and earn a decent living. Maybe I thought about traveling once or twice, but it was never a dream I held close. 

"Boulevardier," I tell the bartender as I sit. 

"Oh," he stops pouring into a glass, his lips pursing, "that's something." 

"Why?"

He shakes his head as he resumes, handing a man beside me a glass of vodka, topped with a lime wedge. "It's nothing. The only people who have ordered it tonight are trust-fund  men who haven't worked a day in their lives. "His gaze slides over my face, as if studying it. "I figured you'd choose something more interesting." 

My "Oh" is quieter. Trust Julian to recommend something like that to me. "What would you suggest, then?" I ask. 

"A mocktail."

I spin as I hear the voice behind, my pulse picking up. I already know it is-the last person I want to see and yet the same person that has been on my mind for hours. 

Adrian is standing behind me, dressed in a midnight, tailored black suit with a white silk shirt inside. He looks handsome. He is handsome.  

He stares at me, expressionless. 

"You should make your choices carefully, Miss Wilson. You don't want a replay of the wedding incident, do you?"

The wedding incident? 

I stare at Adrian as my thoughts race, partially distracted by how close he's standing and how good he smells. 

So good-there's a hint of-

Wait.  My brain comes to a grinding halt. My jaw slacks. 

"You're not talking about..."

He nods. "Yes."

I shake my head and the laughter that leaves my lips is doubting. "Nah. It's impossible for you to know about that. It was years ago. I was a freshman. There's no way..." I trail off, when it dawns on me that he's serious. 

"How?" I question, still baffled. My head is spinning with theories. Has he been stalking me? That's impossible. Adrian Hawthorne couldn't care less about my less-than-average life. 

Even when my father happened to lose the company to Hawthorne Industries, we never crossed paths. 

I only showed on his radar at the auction.  

Funny enough...I bite my bottom lip hard, tilting my head as my train of thought derails. I never thought to ask him what he was doing there. Was he expecting to buy someone else?  

Hell, I wasn't paying attention to what was being auctioned while I stood in the dark, hidden from the main stage. 

I was thinking about how gullible I'd been to believe my stepfather that things were about to change-that he was finally putting in effort to get sober and pick up his duties as a father. And the only family I had left. 

My brows squint as I search Adrian's face for answers. "How would you know about something that happened years ago?"

His brow arches, ever so lightly. He takes a step closer and I instinctively suck in a breath, holding it somewhere between my throat and my lungs. 

He brings his lips close to my ear. "What did you think...I was going to bring you into my home without doing due diligence?" His voice rumbles through my ear, carrying a hint of mockery I don't miss. "I don't trust anyone, Miss Wilson."

Adrian pulls away, his gaze pinned on my face. "Much like someone who comes from a greedy, dishonest family."

Greedy? 

Greedy??? 

"I-"

I start to argue, but he's already stepping to the side, speaking to the bartender. "She'll have a mocktail. Keep the alcohol away for the rest of the evening." 

"Yes, sir."

I whirl around, a scoff slipping out at the bartender's response. "You're going to listen to me over him? You think a man should control what a woman drinks?" I thrust my hands on my hips and his gaze slides down to my cleavage for a split second.  

Typical. 

"I'm going to get something strong," I insist. "That's what I want. Unless you're willing to admit that you're sexist."

The bartender's face turns red as he glances away, scratching his head awkwardly.  "I-I'm sorry, miss," he mutters, "but Mr. Hawthorne is the host of the party. He hired me. I'm afraid I have to do as he asks."

Wait. 

What?  

I glance at Adrian-at his expressionless face and those impossibly arrogant eyes. And then it clicks. Julian had mentioned that he had bars and clubs, so it was easy for the host to ask for his services."

I'd assumed it was someone in his social circles. Another wealthy New York socialite who wanted to impress. 

But I should've known. 

After all, Adrian didn't want me here. He had every right to refuse, since it was his party.

I roll my eyes, planting my hands higher. "Right," I drawl dryly. "I see. You know what?" I shake my head. "I'm suddenly no longer in the mood for a drink. I think-" I raise a finger, "-I'm going to find a handsome stranger to talk to and maybe dance with him, if possible."

"Then if he offers me a drink, I'm going to say yes." My chin jutted out defiantly as my eyes narrow, my gaze moving from Adrian to the bartender and back. "And if he asks me to leave the party with him, I won't turn him down, because the host doesn't want me here in the first place."

He says nothing. 

I expected it. 

I blow out an exasperated breath as I turn, ready to go mingle by all means. Julian said to have fun and not let his brother ruin my night. I plan to do exactly that. 

I've gone three steps, maybe four, when I feel strong fingers clamp around my wrist. Adrian pulls me back and I find myself pressed to his chest. 

His hard, muscled, warm chest. 

My stomach dips without warning. A shiver runs down my spine, gathering just between my thighs. I breathe a little unsteadily. 

"What do you want from me?" I hiss. "You revoked my invite to a party that I didn't know about until your brother informed me. Now you've banned me from the bar. What else?" I lift my head, staring into his eyes. "You're going to send me home? Ground me? Since you own me and I'm expected to live by your rules, walking on eggshells and saying "yes, sir," to every command?"

The last words scrape out of me, breathless and  burning.

Then silence.

Just the sound of my breathing-too loud, too uneven-and the way my chest rises against his with every inhale.

Adrian doesn't let go. He doesn't tell me to go home, like I expect. He leans in, closer. His voice drops into a rasp, brushing far too close to my ear.

"If you're going to flirt with a man in this room," he says, "then I suggest you choose wisely, Miss Wilson. Don't forget...you belong to me."

For a long, embarrassing moment, I forget how to speak. The words are at the tip of my tongue, but Adrian's eyes are boring holes through my face and into my brain, cutting off the part that connects to speech.

"Then again," he murmurs, "I doubt you had any time between the jobs and shifts you had to pick up to learn how to dance."

He releases my hand abruptly and I lose my footing a bit. Adrian's eyes dance with curiosity as he folds his arms. "My brother is...reckless. He does things as he wants, with no regard of how it affects others, as long as he's having fun. I would've expected you to know better, Miss Wilson."

His gaze trails over my body with barely a flicker of interest-not like the gaping stare the bartender gave. And yet, heat travels down the path his eyes take, pooling in my belly. I will myself to ignore it.

He doesn't think it's pretty. He's probably calculating how much it cost and why Julian had to spend so much money on someone like me.

I cross my arms over my chest, defensively. "I'll return it tomorrow. It didn't come with a tag, but I'm sure I can persuade them to take it. After all, it was your brother who suggested something outrageously expensive."

I feel bad for throwing Julian under the boss, but he dragged me into it.

Adrian tuts softly. "It looks good on you."

Huh?

I stare at him, unblinking. My lashes lift and fall, once. Faster, twice. He did not just give me a compliment? I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, feeling very self-conscious all of a sudden. "What?" he asks. "Would you rather I said yellow doesn't look good on you? That it doesn't complement your eyes and the way they shine under the chandelier light?"

"I-"

A flush rises quickly to the back of my neck. I feel...hot. I glance around, searching for something. A waiter, a glass of cold water-a drink, for heavens sake. Because either Adrian Hawthorne had a concussion before he came up to me or I'm hallucinating.

"But if you were to throw yourself into the arms of any man here-" his voice turns serious, "-you'll only end up giving them bloody ties. And then, I'd have the unfortunate responsibility of explaining how someone with no social graces got into a party like this."

"So, you see, Miss Wilson," his eyes narrow and his tone deepens with a note of distaste," perhaps you should've stayed home after all."

I take back everything I just said.

Adrian Hawthorne didn't hit his head and sudden become a normal member of society. He's still the arrogant, narcissistic asshole I know. And the heat in my stomach is because I haven't had anything to eat since I left the campus.

Julian promised me overpriced caviar.

"You know what?" I purse my lips tightly with a bitter smile. "I get it. I'm going to stay out of your way. I won't bother you with the insult of watching me make a fool of myself, just because I'm doing my best to fit in with your social circle."

A lump thickens in the back of my throat and my eyes sting with tears. "I'm going to put myself in time-out, find a corner and stay there until you're ready to send me away to where you think I belong."

I march away without another word-without waiting for the response I know will never come-swiping my eyes angrily with the back of my hand. I move out of the way, just in time to avoid a waitstaff carrying a tray of bubbly glasses.

I change my mind at the last minute, snagging one.

"Ma'am," she protests weakly, but I'm tipping my head back already and letting it pour down throat. The liquid is thick and fruity, not like the punch and burn I expected. I scoff with a sharp breath, staring at the glass with disappointment. "You too?" My voice cracks pitifully.

"Here," the server hands me another, a smile touching her lips. She tilts her head when I stare at it questioningly. "The people who asked for it won't miss it anyway. They're probably blacked out by now. And," she says in a hushed, excited whisper as she leans closer, "it's a twenty-year-old bottle of rum. If you can't taste it, why would you drink it?"

I end up with a bottle of rum, standing outside on the balcony, away from the party and the noise. The evening-night-breeze beats on my skin mercilessly. I shiver, wrapping an arm tightly around my chest as I take another swig from the bottle.

It's still sticky and sweet, but it fights off some of the cold.

I hate it here.

I didn't think ending up in the home of the man who picked me up like a discounted tab at a hole-in-the-wall diner was going to magically turn my life around...but I didn't think it was going to be this horrible.

I don't have to worry about money, tuition or a roof over my head, but now I have to deal with a narcissist who doesn't miss any opportunity to remind me of how inadequate I am, compared to him.

Alina Wilson, pauper. Adrian Hawthorne, CEO of Hawthorne Industries, billionaire and recluse.

A tear slides down my cheek. I don't bother brushing it away this time. My lips are all bruised from holding the back and the wind, brushing harshly against the tiny cuts, sting horribly.

I want to go home.

I'm not sure where that is, but I'm done being strong.

I go to take another swig, only to discover that the bottle's empty. "Crap." I shake it, growing furious by the second. I'm nowhere near drunk. The server said it was aged rum, but she must've been confused.

"Oh well," I shrugged. I'm Murphy's Law little experiment. If anything can go wrong, it's bound to go wrong for me. I slowly bend down, placing the bottle on the ground. The floor tilts as I try to stand up and my head lolls forward, dangling off my neck. My vision swims as my surrounding blurs into a mix of hazy colors and distorted images.

 "Woah," I mutter as I grip the railing, slurring the word. "That was trippy."

A tiny, high-pitched laugh that resembles nothing like me, pours out. I shake my head. "Gotta try again...slowly."

I turn, raising one foot. The ground distorts, sinking deeper and then magically rising higher than my shoe. I squint in confusion, trying to make sense of it, while balancing on one foot.

Bad idea.

It happens in slow drunken motion. My arms flail out, my shoes fly off my feet, landing somewhere in the dark and my legs give way from underneath me, like a rug roughly pulled forward. And then I'm falling.

I open my mouth to scream for help, but nothing comes out. Just pure horror, coursing through my veins and the late dawning that perhaps I shouldn't have drunk the half-bottle the staff snuck out for me.

It was rum, after all.

I close my eyes, thinking about all the things I thought about doing. The boring goals on my list. My graduation walk in mere months.

This is how I die, I think to myself. In a yellow, expensive dress I was going to return, outside a party where I don't belong, drinking stolen rum. From a split brain.

I wait for the end-

And end up slamming into something hard, with a firm grip digging into my waist. I feel something beating against my ear. Thump. thump. thump. Warm breath floods my ear as an amused drawl fills the thundering silence of my near-death incident.

"Is this a desperate cry for help, Miss Wilson. Or are you trying to appear more approachable due to your lack of social etiquette?"