Chapter 1
Red wine hit my face beneath a thousand glittering crystals, and the laughter that followed was even colder. Three wealthy young men thought I was a nobody they could humiliate for entertainment—but none of them knew whose daughter they had just drenched in front of half of Chicago’s elite.
One second, I was standing beside a marble column inside the Bellweather Grand, holding sparkling water while hundreds of guests moved beneath enormous chandeliers. The next, cabernet poured over my brown hair, ran down my cheeks, and soaked the cream blouse I had bought for thirty-two dollars on clearance.
For half a second, the ballroom went silent. Then Preston Hale looked at the empty glass in his hand and burst out laughing.
“Oh, God,” he said. “I’m sorry. I thought you were staff.”
His friend Chase Whitaker immediately raised his phone toward me, grinning like he had just discovered the funniest thing on earth. “Don’t move. This is incredible.”
Owen Mercer, the third man, laughed weakly before glancing around the room. “Come on, Preston. That’s enough.”
Preston had apparently never learned what enough meant. His father owned Hale Hospitality Group, including the hotel we were standing in, and Preston carried himself like that meant every person inside the ballroom belonged to him.
He stepped closer while wine dripped from the ends of my hair. “You seriously came dressed like that?”
“I was invited,” I said quietly.
My calmness seemed to irritate him more than anger would have. Preston smirked while Chase continued recording me.
“Invited by who?” Preston asked. Chase laughed behind his phone. “The catering company?”
A few guests nearby chuckled, and something inside my chest tightened. I recognized executives, attorneys, politicians, and donors around us—people who had shaken my father’s hand, sat across from him at private dinners, and learned very quickly never to disrespect his family.
But tonight, none of them recognized me.
My father had spent most of my childhood making sure photographs of me stayed out of newspapers. Michael Carter wasn’t simply wealthy; in certain Chicago circles, his name was spoken carefully, because everyone knew he controlled one of the city’s most feared organized-crime families.
Preston, unfortunately for himself, had no idea.
He stared at my inexpensive blouse, scratched shoes, simple black skirt, and lack of jewelry. “Look, I’m sure there’s been some misunderstanding, but tickets tonight started at five thousand dollars.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” he mocked. “Because people might wonder how someone like you got inside.”
“You mean people like you.”
His smile changed.
By then, at least fifty guests were watching, yet nobody stepped forward. That hurt more than the wine running down my neck.
Preston leaned close enough that I could smell alcohol on his breath. “You know what I think? You should leave before security realizes somebody screwed up.”
“She isn’t leaving.”
The voice came from somewhere behind Preston, but it wasn’t my father’s.
A tall man in a dark navy suit stepped through the crowd, removed his jacket, and gently wrapped it around my shoulders. “Are you okay?”
Before I could answer, the ballroom doors opened again.
The conversations died almost instantly as four men in black suits entered first, scanning the room with expressions that made even Preston stop smiling. Behind them walked my father, Michael Carter, his silver cufflinks catching the chandelier light as dozens of powerful people suddenly went pale.
May you like
His eyes moved across the ballroom, found me covered in wine, then slowly shifted toward Preston.
And that was when Preston finally whispered, “Who the hell is that?”
