The sidewalk outside Gilded Lily was a war zone of elbows, perfume, and desperation. Isadora stood near the velvet ropes, the humidity making her dress stick uncomfortably to her lower back. Zoe had met her at the corner, and now they were both observing the crush of bodies clamoring to get the bouncer's attention.

"Name?" The doorman didn't even look at them. He was staring over Isadora's head at a group of models.

"Isadora Dyer," Isadora said, raising her voice over the thumping bass leaking from the club. "I'm on Grafton Blanchard's list."

The doorman scrolled through his iPad with agonizing slowness. "Not seeing it."

"Check again," Zoe snapped, stepping forward. "It's definitely there."

Behind them, a group of girls in sequined mini-dresses let out impatient sighs. One of them, a blonde with sharp features, leaned in. "If you aren't on the list, move. Some of us actually belong here."

Isadora felt the heat rise in her neck. She fumbled for her phone to pull up the digital invite, but the signal in the Meatpacking District was choked by the thousands of people uploading stories. The loading wheel spun mockingly.

"Please," Isadora said, her voice cracking slightly. "It's my company's future at stake. Grafton is expecting me."

The doorman finally looked at her. His eyes were flat, bored. "Step aside, miss."

Isadora felt a hand on her arm. Zoe was pulling her back, but Isadora planted her feet. This couldn't be happening. Not tonight.

Then, the atmosphere shifted.

It wasn't a sound, but a sudden absence of it. The chaotic chatter of the line died down. The paparazzi, who had been lazily smoking cigarettes, suddenly snapped to attention, their cameras raising in unison like weapons.

A black custom sedan glided to the curb, moving silently like a predator. It stopped right in front of the red carpet, blocking the view of the lesser cars.

The driver's door opened, and a uniformed chauffeur stepped out, moving briskly to the rear passenger side. He pulled the handle.

A polished black dress shoe hit the pavement.

A man Isadora had never seen before emerged from the car.

Isadora stopped breathing for a second. She didn't know who he was, but the crowd did. He was a ghost, a whisper in the financial world, the man who handled the assets of the city's most powerful and discreet players. He wore a dark suit that fit him so perfectly it looked like it had been sculpted onto his body. He didn't look at the cameras. He didn't look at the crowd. He looked like he was walking through an empty room.

He buttoned his jacket with one hand, his expression completely unreadable. It wasn't anger; it was an indifference so profound it felt cold even from ten feet away.

The crowd parted for him instinctively. The doorman, who had just dismissed Isadora, practically bent in half, unhooking the velvet rope with frantic speed.

"Mr. Riddle," the doorman said, his voice trembling. "Welcome back."

The man, Kingston's proxy, didn't acknowledge him. He walked straight toward the entrance.

Isadora tried to step back to give him space, but the crowd surged forward, trying to get a picture. A heavy shoulder slammed into her back.

Isadora pitched forward. Her heel caught in the gap between the red carpet and the cobblestone. Her arms flailed, grasping at empty air. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the impact of the dirty pavement and the humiliation that would follow.

The impact never came.

A hand, large and firm, clamped around her upper arm. It wasn't a gentle grip; it was a stabilizer. It hauled her up with an effortless strength that made her feel weightless for a split second.

Isadora opened her eyes. She was staring directly into a grey tie. She looked up.

The proxy, the man they called Mr. Riddle, was looking down at her. His eyes were a startling shade of blue-grey, like the ocean before a storm. He wasn't smiling. His brows were pulled together slightly, not in concern, but in mild annoyance.

She could smell him-cedarwood and something crisp, like expensive gin.

"Watch your step, Miss Dyer," he said. His voice was deep, vibrating in her chest.

He knew her name. The realization made her knees weak again. He released her arm slowly, making sure she was balanced.

"I... thank you," Isadora stammered. "I'm sorry."

The man turned his head toward the doorman. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. "They're with me."

The doorman went pale. "Of course, Mr. Riddle. My apologies."

Mr. Riddle looked back at Isadora, then at Zoe. He tilted his head toward the open door. It was a command, not an invitation.

Isadora walked through the velvet ropes, her heart hammering against her ribs. She could feel the eyes of the girls who had mocked her burning into her back. They were silent now.

The man walked beside her, not touching her, but his presence was a shield. The noise of the club got louder as they entered the foyer.

Once inside, Mr. Riddle stopped. He turned to face her. He was tall, towering over her even in her heels. He looked at her dress, then her face, his expression unreadable.

"Grafton Blanchard is on the second floor," Mr. Riddle said. "Try not to fall on the way up."

Before Isadora could respond, he turned and walked toward a private elevator guarded by two massive security guards. He didn't look back.

Zoe grabbed Isadora's arm, her nails digging in. "Did Kingston Riddle's shadow just save you?"

Isadora watched the elevator doors close, cutting off the sight of his broad back. She rubbed her arm where he had grabbed her. The skin still felt warm.

"I think so," Isadora whispered.

"That," Zoe said, eyes wide, "is a good omen. Come on. Let's go find your prince."

Isadora nodded, turning toward the main staircase. But the coldness of the proxy's eyes lingered in her mind, a stark contrast to the heat of the room.

The door to the VIP suite was heavy, soundproofed leather. Isadora had to use both hands to push it open. As soon as the seal broke, the music exploded outward, a wall of bass and synth that rattled her teeth.

The room was bathed in low, purple light. Waitresses in corsets moved through the crowd with sparklers attached to magnum bottles of champagne. The air smelled of smoke and expensive vodka.

Isadora scanned the room, her hand clutching the small gift bag containing the cufflinks. Her knuckles were white.

"There he is," Zoe shouted over the music, pointing toward the center of the room.

Grafton was standing on the main banquette, looking like the king of the world. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, his hair perfectly messy. He was laughing, holding a glass of champagne high in the air.

Isadora's heart did that treacherous leap again. He looked so happy.

Then she saw who he was talking to.

He wasn't looking at the door. He was looking down at a woman sitting on the couch in front of him. All Isadora could see was a cascade of blonde hair and a backless silver dress that dipped dangerously low.

"Grafton!" one of his friends, a guy named Topher, yelled. "Look who made it! Little Izzy!"

Grafton turned. His face lit up when he saw her. It was the same smile he had given her for twenty years-warm, easy, familiar.

"Izzy!" he shouted, jumping down from the banquette. "You're here!"

He moved toward her, and for a second, Isadora thought he was going to hug her. But he stopped a few feet away. He was holding something in his left hand.

A long, black velvet box.

Aurelia.

Isadora stopped breathing. The world narrowed down to that box. The noise of the club faded into a dull roar. He had it. He had the bracelet. He was holding it right now, walking toward her on the night their lives were supposed to merge.

"I have a surprise," Grafton said, his eyes gleaming. "I've been waiting all night to do this."

Isadora felt tears prick her eyes. She took a step forward. "Grafton, I..."

"Wait," Grafton said, holding up a finger. He turned back to the blonde woman on the couch. "Sweetheart, come here."

The woman stood up and turned around.

It was Bella Sterling.

Isadora felt like she had been punched in the stomach. Bella was everything Isadora wasn't-tall, statuesque, with a face that was beautiful in a sharp, predatory way. She was the daughter of Sterling Capital, their biggest market competitor.

Bella smiled at Isadora. It didn't reach her eyes.

"Come here," Grafton said again, reaching for Bella's hand. He pulled her to his side, his arm going around her waist possessively.

Isadora stood frozen, the gift bag heavy in her hand. Her brain couldn't process the image.

"Everyone!" Grafton shouted, his voice booming over the music. The DJ lowered the volume. The room went semi-quiet.

"I want to make an announcement," Grafton said, looking down at Bella with a look of adoration Isadora had never seen directed at herself. "Our families have finally merged. Everyone, meet my fiancée, Bella."

A cheer went up from the room. Confetti cannons popped from the ceiling. Strips of gold paper rained down, landing in Isadora's hair, sticking to her eyelashes.

Grafton opened the black velvet box.

Inside sat the Eternity Lock bracelet. The diamonds caught the strobe lights, flashing violently.

Isadora watched, paralyzed, as Grafton took Bella's wrist. He wrapped the bracelet around it.

Click.

The sound was tiny, but to Isadora, it sounded like a gunshot. The lock snapped shut.

"It fits perfectly," Bella cooed, holding her wrist up to the light. She looked at Isadora, her eyes glittering with malice. "Oh, hi Isadora. Grafton talks about you all the time. His little mascot."

"Mascot?" Isadora whispered. The word tasted like bile.

Grafton laughed, oblivious. He grabbed a bottle of champagne and poured it into a tower of glasses. He grabbed one and shoved it into Isadora's hand.

"Drink up, Izzy!" Grafton said, clinking his glass against hers so hard champagne sloshed over her fingers. "It's a double celebration. My girl and my best friend. Congratulations to us all!"

He didn't even wait for her to answer. He turned back to Bella, kissing her on the temple.

Zoe stepped forward, her face twisted in rage. "Grafton, are you serious right now?"

Isadora grabbed Zoe's wrist. Her grip was iron-hard. "Don't," she hissed.

"But Isadora-"

"Don't." Isadora's voice was devoid of emotion. She couldn't let them see. She couldn't let Bella see her bleed.

She stood there, the champagne sticky on her hand, the confetti tangled in her hair. She looked at the bracelet on Bella's wrist. It was a shackle. It was a promise. And it wasn't hers.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Bella asked, thrusting her wrist toward Isadora's face. "The salesman said it means 'locked together forever.' Isn't that sweet?"

"Yeah," Isadora said. Her throat felt like it was full of glass shards. "It's... lovely."

Grafton wrapped both arms around Bella from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. He looked at Isadora with that same, stupid, happy grin.

"I knew you'd be happy for me, Izzy," he said. "You're the best."

Isadora gripped the stem of the champagne glass so hard she thought it might snap. She forced the corners of her mouth up. It wasn't a smile. It was a grimace of pure agony.

"The best," she echoed.

The air in the VIP suite had turned into a solid mass, pressing against Isadora's chest, making it impossible to expand her lungs. Every time Grafton touched Bella's hair, every time the diamonds on that bracelet flashed, Isadora felt a physical jolt of nausea.

"I need the restroom," Isadora said. Her voice sounded distant, like it was coming from underwater.

Grafton didn't hear her. He was busy whispering something in Bella's ear that made her giggle.

Isadora turned and walked away. She didn't run, but she walked fast, her heels sinking into the plush carpet. Zoe started to follow her, but Isadora held up a hand, shaking her head. She needed to be alone. She needed to not be perceived for just one minute.

She pushed into the private restroom attached to the suite. It was marble and gold, empty for the moment. Isadora locked the door and slumped against it. Her legs gave out, and she slid down until she was sitting on the cold tiles.

She put her hands over her mouth to stifle the sob that was clawing its way up her throat. She wouldn't cry. Not here. Not where they could hear her.

She stood up on shaky legs and moved to the sink. She turned on the cold water, splashing it onto her burning face. Her mascara was running, dark streaks cutting through her perfect foundation. She looked like a ghost.

Above the sink, there was a decorative vent. It must have connected directly to the smoking terrace just outside the suite's side door.

Voices drifted through it. Clear. Unmistakable.

"Dude," a male voice said. It was Topher. "You got balls. Announcing a merger on Isadora's big night? She looked like she was going to puke."

Isadora froze. Her hand hovered over the faucet. She held her breath.

"What are you talking about?" Grafton's voice. He sounded relaxed, amused. "Isadora doesn't care about that stuff. She's not like other girls."

"I don't know, man," another voice chimed in. "The way she looks at you? That's not 'sister' vibes. That's 'I'll sign away my company for you' vibes."

Isadora squeezed her eyes shut. Please, Grafton. Defend me. Or at least be kind.

"Oh, stop it," Bella's voice cut in. It was sharp, annoyed. "It is a little pathetic, isn't it? How she follows you around? It's like she has no life of her own."

There was a pause. A silence that stretched for an eternity.

Then Grafton laughed. It was a dry, dismissive sound.

"Look," Grafton said. "Isadora is... she's great. But yeah, she's dependent. She's like a kid in a lot of ways. She needs me to look out for her. It's a lot of pressure, honestly. Sometimes it's just... a burden. But what am I supposed to do? Kick a puppy?"

A burden.

Kick a puppy.

The words hit Isadora with the force of a physical blow. Her knees actually buckled, hitting the cabinet under the sink with a thud.

She wasn't his partner. She wasn't his equal. She was a charity case. A weight he carried around because he was too nice to drop her.

A wave of humiliation washed over her, hot and prickly. It was worse than the heartbreak. Heartbreak was clean. This was dirty. This was shame.

She couldn't go back out there. She couldn't look him in the face knowing that when he looked at her, he saw a burden.

Isadora grabbed a paper towel and scrubbed her face violently, not caring that she was rubbing her skin raw. She looked at the door. She couldn't go back through the suite.

She saw a second door on the far wall. Service.

She tried the handle. It opened.

Isadora slipped through it, finding herself in a narrow concrete hallway stacked with crates of liquor and bags of dirty linens. It smelled of sour beer and garbage. She didn't care.

She ran. She gathered the skirt of her champagne silk dress in her hands and ran past confused busboys and kitchen staff. She burst through the heavy metal fire exit at the end of the hall.

The night air hit her, but it wasn't the relief she expected. It was pouring rain. A sudden summer downpour that turned the alleyway into a river of grime.

Isadora stepped out, the heavy door slamming shut behind her and locking automatically.

She was in the alley behind the club. Rain instantly soaked her hair, plastering it to her skull. The silk dress darkened, clinging to her body, becoming translucent and heavy.

She walked toward the street, her heels slipping on the wet cobblestones. She was shivering, her teeth chattering so hard her jaw ached.

She reached the corner, looking for a taxi. There were none. Just the endless rain and the dark, slick street. She was alone, wet, and unwanted.