The Pierre Hotel was the epitome of old-world New York glamour. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, casting a golden glow over the hundreds of guests sipping champagne.

Jocelyn entered through the service entrance.

She wasn't wearing a gown. She wore a simple black dress under her work blazer. Her left hand was heavily bandaged in white gauze. She clutched the thick folder of documents against her chest with her right hand.

She felt like a crow in a cage of peacocks.

She scanned the room. It didn't take long to find him.

Kieran was in the center of the ballroom, holding court. He was laughing, his head thrown back. Beside him, Aspen Schneider preened. She wore a silver gown that clung to every curve, flashing a diamond ring on her finger that caught the light like a beacon.

Jocelyn took a deep breath. Just get it over with.

She walked through the crowd. People parted for her, not out of respect, but out of confusion. She didn't belong.

"Mr. Douglas," she said when she reached him.

Kieran turned. His smile vanished instantly. His eyes raked over her outfit with disdain.

"You're late," he said coldly. "And underdressed. This is a black-tie event, Jocelyn."

"I'm not here for the party," Jocelyn said flatly. "Here are the merger files."

She extended the folder.

Kieran didn't take it. He swirled his drink, looking bored. "Put them on the table over there. I don't want to hold them."

Aspen turned then. Her eyes lit up when she saw Jocelyn. It wasn't a friendly light; it was the predatory gleam of a cat spotting a wounded mouse.

"Jocelyn! Darling!" Aspen squealed.

She lunged forward, enveloping Jocelyn in a fake, perfumed hug.

"We missed you in Paris!" Aspen coos, pulling back but keeping her hands on Jocelyn's arms. "It was magical."

Jocelyn stepped back, trying to disengage. "Hello, Aspen."

Aspen's gaze dropped to Jocelyn's bandaged hand. "Oh no, what happened? Did you hurt yourself?"

"Kitchen accident," Jocelyn muttered.

"You poor thing!" Aspen exclaimed loudly. Heads turned nearby. "Let me see."

Before Jocelyn could react, Aspen grabbed her injured hand with both of hers.

"Aspen, don't-"

Aspen smiled sweetly, looking directly into Jocelyn's eyes. And then, she squeezed.

She dug her manicured nails directly into the burn under the gauze.

Jocelyn gasped. A sharp, white-hot bolt of agony shot up her arm, blinding her for a second. A wave of nausea crashed over her, and the glittering ballroom momentarily swam out of focus. She felt a cold sweat break out on her forehead.

"Aspen, let go!" Jocelyn hissed through gritted teeth, trying to pull away.

Aspen held tight, her grip like iron. "But I'm just worried! You need to be careful, Jocelyn. You're so clumsy."

Kieran watched, sipping his drink. "Aspen is being nice, Jocelyn. Don't be rude."

The pain was unbearable. It felt like fire was eating her skin.

Jocelyn yanked her hand back violently, a reflex of pure survival.

Her elbow struck a passing waiter's tray.

Crash!

The sound of shattering glass cut through the ambient chatter like a gunshot. Champagne sprayed everywhere-over the waiter, over the floor, and over the hem of Aspen's silver dress.

The ballroom went silent. The music seemed to stop.

Aspen gasped, bringing a hand to her mouth in a perfect performance of shock. "Jocelyn! Are you drunk?"

Kieran stepped forward, his face darkening with rage.

"What is wrong with you?" he demanded, his voice echoing in the quiet room.

Jocelyn stood amidst the broken glass, clutching her throbbing hand to her chest. She looked around. Hundreds of eyes were staring at her. Judging her.

She was the villain in their story. The clumsy, bitter ex-girlfriend causing a scene.

Kieran grabbed Jocelyn's uninjured arm, his fingers digging into her bicep. He pulled her roughly away from the mess, dragging her a few feet toward the edge of the circle.

"Apologize to Aspen," he hissed in her ear. "Now."

Jocelyn looked at him, incredulous. The pain in her hand was a steady drumbeat, but the shock of his blindness was worse. She was pale and trembling, the room still tilting slightly.

"She hurt me on purpose," Jocelyn said. "She squeezed my burn."

Kieran rolled his eyes. "She was checking your injury. Stop playing the victim. It's exhausting."

"I am not playing anything," Jocelyn said, her voice rising. "I quit, Kieran. I gave my notice this morning."

Kieran laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound that made her skin crawl.

"You quit?" He looked at her like she was a child threatening to run away to the backyard. "You don't have anywhere to go. You need this job. You need me."

A crowd had gathered. Kieran's friends-the "Trust Fund Boys," a group of wealthy idlers-were snickering behind their hands.

"Is she causing trouble again?" one of them asked loudly.

Kieran released her arm and addressed the room, raising his voice slightly to be heard.

"Sorry everyone," he said, flashing a charming, apologetic smile. "Just a disgruntled employee. You know how it is."

He looked back at Jocelyn, his eyes dead.

"You were just an assistant, Jocelyn. Don't confuse your role."

The words hung in the air. Just an assistant.

Not a partner. Not a lover. Not the woman who had nursed him through the flu, who had managed his life, who had loved him.

Jocelyn felt the last thread of attachment snap. It was a physical sensation, like a rubber band breaking in her chest.

"Is that all I was?" she asked quietly.

"Yes," Kieran lied. He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to impress Aspen. "And a mediocre one at that."

Aspen smirked behind him, brushing a speck of nonexistent dust from her gown.

Jocelyn straightened her spine. The humiliation burned hotter than her hand, but it also cauterized the wound. She felt a strange, cold clarity.

"Thank you for clarifying," she said. Her voice was steady.

She dropped the folder.

It hit the floor at Kieran's feet with a heavy thud.

"Here are your files," she said. "Pick them up yourself."

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. No one spoke to Kieran Douglas like that.

Kieran's face turned a mottled red. "Jocelyn!"

She turned and walked away.

She didn't run. She walked. Her heels crunched on the broken glass, a satisfying sound.

She ignored the whispers. She ignored Kieran calling her name.

She reached the heavy double doors and pushed them open.

The muffled sound of the party faded as the doors swung shut behind her. She was in the lobby.

She walked faster now, the adrenaline beginning to fade, leaving her shaking. She needed to get out.

She pushed through the revolving doors into the night.

It was raining. A cold, miserable New York drizzle that soaked through her blazer in seconds.

She stood on the curb, shivering, trying to hail a cab with her good hand. Her bandaged hand was throbbing so hard it made her nauseous.

A low growl cut through the noise of the traffic.

A car pulled up to the curb. It wasn't a taxi. It was a vintage silver Aston Martin DB5, a car that looked like it had driven straight out of a 1960s spy movie. She blinked through the rain, thinking, Of course he drives something this impractical. Probably blew the last of his money on it.

The window rolled down.