The interior of Le Coucou was a masterpiece of warm lighting and hushed exclusivity. Eve sat at a corner table, shielded by a high partition of lush greenery. It was the most private spot in the restaurant, chosen specifically for this moment.

She checked her Cartier watch. Andre was twelve minutes late.

She took a sip of water, the ice clinking softly against the crystal. It was fine. He was an artist. Time was a fluid concept to him, something to be bent rather than obeyed. She touched the velvet box in her purse again, grounding herself.

Her phone lit up on the white tablecloth. A notification from a celebrity gossip app she usually ignored.

BREAKING: The Reclusive Artist Returns. Famed Artist Andre Wilcox spotted at JFK with an old flame.

Eve's breath hitched. Her finger hovered over the screen, trembling slightly.

She tapped the notification.

The photo was grainy, taken with a long lens, but undeniable. It was Andre. He was walking through the arrivals terminal, looking tan and rugged. But he wasn't alone. Tucked under his arm, her head resting on his shoulder, was a woman with distinctive red hair.

Cinda Nixon. His ex-girlfriend.

Eve felt the blood drain from her face. Her stomach dropped, a physical sensation of falling. Why was Cinda with him? Why hadn't he mentioned she was coming back?

"Right this way, Monsieur."

The maitre d's voice drifted from the other side of the greenery partition. Eve froze.

"This is perfect, thank you," a voice said.

Andre's voice.

Eve's heart slammed against her ribs. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. She sat paralyzed, listening as two people slid into the booth directly behind her, separated only by the decorative plants.

"I missed this city," a female voice purred. Cinda. "But I missed you more."

There was the sound of fabric rustling, hands touching.

"I told you I'd come back for you," Andre said. His tone was low, intimate-a tone Eve had heard in her head a thousand times, but never directed at her.

"What about her?" Cinda asked. Her voice carried a mocking lilt. "Is that Franks heiress still obsessed with you? The one who bought all your early paintings?"

Eve gripped the edge of the table. Her knuckles turned bone-white. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying for him to defend her. Praying for him to say they were friends, partners, anything respectful.

Andre let out a short, dismissive laugh.

"Don't talk about her," he said. "It kills the mood."

"Come on," Cinda pressed. "She's rich. Did you sleep with her?"

"God, no," Andre said. The disgust in his voice was casual, easy. "She's... intense. Suffocating. She's a burden, always has been. Besides, look at her. She's just a checkbook with legs. She was a useful stand-in while I got established, Cinda. A placeholder. Every time I looked at her, I was just wishing she was you."

The words hit Eve like a physical blow to the chest.

A stand-in.

A placeholder.

A high-pitched ringing started in Eve's ears, drowning out the ambient noise of the restaurant. The room tilted. The air felt too thin. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob that was clawing its way up her throat.

Seven years. The sneaking around to avoid the press, the secret funding of his gallery shows, the late-night calls where she listened to his insecurities. It was all a lie. She wasn't the love of his life. She was his ATM.

She looked down at her champagne silk dress. She looked pathetic.

Anger, hot and blinding, flared in her chest, but it was quickly extinguished by a crushing wave of humiliation. She couldn't confront them. If she stood up now, if she screamed, she would be the crazy, desperate heiress. She would be the joke.

She wouldn't give them that satisfaction.

Eve stood up. Her legs felt like they were made of lead. She moved silently, like a ghost, leaving the unopened menu and the glass of water on the table. She slipped out the side exit, bypassing the maitre d'.

The cold night air of Soho hit her face, stinging the tears that had finally spilled over.

She pulled out her phone. Her hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped it. She found Andre's contact. My Star.

She deleted the nickname. Then she blocked the number.

She opened Instagram. Blocked. Twitter. Blocked.

With every tap, a piece of her heart fractured. It was a digital amputation.

Thomas pulled the car up to the curb, seeing her distress immediately. He hurried out. "Ms. Franks? Is everything alright? The dinner hasn't even started."

"Get in the car," Eve choked out. Her voice was unrecognizable-raw, broken.

"Where to? Home?"

"No," Eve practically screamed, the control finally snapping. "Not home. Everything there reminds me of him. Take me to The Apex Club."

Thomas hesitated, his hand on the door. "Ma'am, you have the board meeting tomorrow morning at eight..."

"Drive!" Eve slammed the door shut, sinking into the darkness of the backseat. "I want the strongest drink they have. Drive the car!"

The Maybach peeled away from the curb, leaving behind the restaurant, the cufflinks in her purse, and the shattered remains of Eve Franks's dignity.

The bass at The Apex Club was a physical force, vibrating through the floorboards and rattling Eve's teeth. The air was thick with smoke, expensive cologne, and bad decisions.

Eve sat at the VIP bar, three empty martini glasses lined up in front of her like soldiers who had died in battle. She stared at the amber liquid in her fourth glass. Her vision was starting to tunnel, the edges of the world blurring into a soft, fuzzy gray.

"Ma'am, maybe you should slow down," the bartender said, eyeing her black card nervously.

"Shut up," Eve slurred. She slapped the card on the counter. "Pour."

The alcohol was burning through her system, stripping away her inhibitions, melting the icy composure she had worn for twenty-six years. She wanted to numb the voice in her head that kept repeating Andre's words. Placeholder. Stand-in. Burden.

To her right, the heavy velvet ropes of the ultra-VIP section parted. A group of men in bespoke suits walked out, radiating power and arrogance.

Leading them was Charls Wiley.

He looked irritated. He had just spent three hours negotiating a hostile takeover of a tech startup, and the celebratory drinks were giving him a headache. He adjusted his cufflinks, his expression one of bored disdain as he scanned the chaotic club. He wanted to go home, drink a glass of water, and sleep in his soundproof penthouse.

His gaze swept over the bar and stopped.

He frowned. That woman... slumped over the counter in a dress that looked like liquid gold... was that Eve Franks?

It couldn't be. Eve Franks didn't get drunk in public. Eve Franks didn't have a hair out of place. This woman looked like a beautiful shipwreck.

He took a step closer, curiosity overriding his instinct to leave.

Eve felt eyes on her. She turned her head slowly, the movement making the room spin. Through the haze of vodka and tears, the figure standing there was tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-haired.

Her brain, desperate for comfort, misfired. The sharp lines of Charls's face softened in her vision. The cold grey eyes looked warmer, deeper.

He came, her mind whispered. He came to apologize.

"You..." Eve whispered. She slid off the high stool. Her heels wobbled, and her ankle twisted.

Charls saw her stumble. His body reacted before his brain did. He stepped forward, reaching out to steady her just as she pitched forward.

Eve collided with his chest. It was hard, solid, warm.

She grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket, her fingers digging into the expensive wool. She buried her face in his shirt, inhaling deeply. He smelled of sandalwood and cold winter air. It wasn't Andre's scent, but her drunk brain didn't care. It was the scent of a man who was here.

"Eve?" Charls's voice was stiff. He tried to peel her off. "What the hell are you doing? Let go."

Eve looked up. Tears were streaming down her face, ruining her makeup. Her eyes were wide, glassy, and filled with a devastating amount of adoration.

She reached up, her palm cupping his jaw. Her thumb brushed over his lip.

The crowd around them went silent. Phones were raised. The flash of a camera went off.

"Why did you say those things?" Eve sobbed, her voice cracking. "Why did you want to leave me? I love you so much."

The silence in the club was deafening. Even the DJ seemed to have lowered the volume.

Charls froze. His eyes widened in genuine shock. He looked around, seeing the faces of half of New York's social elite staring at them. He saw the phones recording.

I love you so much.

She was talking to him. Eve Franks, his sworn enemy, the woman who had sued him three times last year, was confessing her undying love in the middle of a nightclub.

"Eve," Charls hissed, grabbing her wrists. "You are drunk. Look at me. I am Charls Wiley."

"I know who you are," Eve cried, clinging tighter. "You're mine. You're my star."

Charls's face went dark. He felt a vein in his temple throb.

This was a disaster. This was a PR nuclear bomb. If he pushed her away now, the headlines would read Wiley Assaults Drunk Franks Heiress. If he left her here, she'd be eaten alive by the press, and her mother, Huldah, would blame him for not intervening.

He looked down at her. She was a mess. She was vulnerable. And for some godforsaken reason, she was looking at him like he was the only person in the world who mattered.

"Damn it," Charls muttered.

"Let go, Eve," Charls commanded, his voice a low growl near her ear. He tried to pry her fingers from his lapel, but her grip was surprisingly strong, fueled by hysteria.

"No!" Eve wailed, burying her face back into his chest. "Don't leave me again! I'll be better! I won't be boring!"

The whispers around them were turning into excited shouts.

"Did she just say she won't be boring?"

"Is she begging him not to dump her?"

"I thought they hated each other!"

A paparazzi photographer, bold and hungry, stepped past the velvet rope, his camera flashing rapidly in their faces. Click. Click. Click.

Charls was blinded for a second. His Chief of Staff, Harrison, materialized from the shadows, shoving his hand in front of the lens. "Back off! No photos!"

But it was too late. The damage was done.

Charls looked down at Eve. She was shaking against him, oblivious to the sharks circling. He felt a surge of protectiveness that annoyed him. He hated her, theoretically. But he hated the vultures with cameras more.

"Harrison," Charls barked over the noise. "Clear a path. Now."

"Sir, the car is out back, but the alley is blocked by a delivery truck. We have to go out the front."

Charls cursed. He couldn't drag her. She couldn't walk.

He sighed, a sound of pure resignation. He bent down, swept his arm behind her knees, and hoisted her up into his arms.

Eve gasped as the world tilted. She instinctively threw her arms around his neck, her face pressing into the crook of his shoulder.

"You're holding me," she murmured into his skin, her voice wet with tears. "I knew you still loved me."

"Shut up, Eve," Charls gritted out.

He marched through the crowd, his face a mask of icy fury. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, a mixture of awe and shock on their faces. Charls Wiley, the Ice King of Wall Street, carrying his rival like a bride.

Harrison and two bodyguards formed a wedge, pushing people aside.

They burst out of the club doors onto the sidewalk. The night air was crisp. A wall of paparazzi was waiting. The flashes erupted like a lightning storm.

"Mr. Wiley! Is it true you two are engaged?"

"Eve! Why are you crying?"

"Is this a merger or a marriage?"

As Charls moved toward his SUV, he saw Eve's driver, Thomas, trying to push through the throng of photographers. "Ms. Franks!" Thomas yelled, his face a mask of alarm. Charls's bodyguard moved swiftly, intercepting him. "Sir, Mr. Wiley will see to her safety. Follow us to the hospital." The bodyguard's voice was low but firm, an undeniable command that left Thomas frozen in place, watching as Charls used his hand to press Eve's face firmly into his chest, shielding her from the photos. It looked like a romantic gesture. In reality, he just didn't want the world to see her snot-streaked face.

"Move!" Harrison shouted, opening the back door of the waiting SUV.

Charls practically threw Eve onto the leather bench seat and climbed in after her. He slammed the door shut, cutting off the blinding lights.

"Go," he ordered the driver. "Just drive."

The car surged forward.

Inside the dim cabin, the smell of vodka and Eve's expensive floral perfume was suffocating. Eve slumped against the door, her sobbing quieting down to hiccuping breaths.

"Where are we taking her?" the driver asked, eyeing them in the rearview mirror.

"Franks Estate," Charls said, rubbing his temples.

At the word Estate, Eve jolted upright. Her eyes flew open, wild and panicked.

"No!" she screamed. "Not home! I can't go home!"

The emptiness of her apartment, the gifts she had bought for Andre, the memories-it was a haunted house to her now.

"Eve, stop it," Charls said, his patience snapping. "You're drunk. You need to sleep it off."

"I won't go back there!" She lunged toward the front seat. "Stop the car! Let me out!"

"Hey!" Charls grabbed her waist, hauling her back. "Sit down!"

"You don't understand!" She struggled, her elbow catching him in the ribs. She was stronger than she looked. "He's everywhere in that house! I have to find him! I have to ask him why!"

"Ask who?" Charls demanded, pinning her arms to her sides. "Ask me? I'm right here!"

"Not you!" Eve cried, her logic fracturing. She looked at him, and for a second, the illusion broke. She saw Charls. Not Andre.

The confusion made her panic worse. "Let me out!"

She reached for the door handle. The car was moving at 50 miles per hour.

"Don't touch that!" Charls lunged across her to lock the door.

In the chaos, Eve's knee hit the driver's arm hard. The steering wheel jerked to the left.