Chapter 1 No.1

The bass from the jukebox thumped against Bronwyn Brewer's ribcage, a rhythmic assault that matched the throbbing in her temples. She balanced four pitchers of cheap, watery domestic beer on a tray with her left hand, weaving through the crush of bodies at The Dive. The air smelled of stale hops, sweat, and despair-the perfume of Queens on a Friday night.

Her pocket vibrated against her hip. Once. Twice. A relentless buzz that demanded attention she couldn't afford to give.

She slammed the pitchers onto table four, ignoring the leering grin of a regular who tried to grab her wrist. She wiped her hands on her apron, the fabric stiff with grease and old spills, and backed into the shadows near the kitchen door.

She pulled the phone out. The screen was cracked, a spiderweb fracture running diagonally across the glass, but the image was high-definition clear.

It was a photo of a hand. A man's hand, with a familiar scar on the thumb knuckle. It was resting possessively on a thigh clad in silk. On the finger of the hand resting on that thigh was a ring. A massive, vulgar pink diamond.

The caption popped up a second later.

Thanks for stepping aside so we could find true love. -Tiffany.

Bronwyn didn't blink. She didn't gasp. Her body simply went cold, a physiological freeze that started in her chest and spread to her fingertips. Tiffany was her cousin. The man was Jennings Bowen. Her ex-fiancé. The man whose family had paid for her medical school scholarship only to publicly revoke it when they unilaterally broke the engagement, declaring her background a 'reputational liability'. The man she had once, stupidly, loved.

Bile rose in her throat, acidic and hot. She gripped the edge of the phone so hard the plastic casing creaked. She deleted the photo. Then she blocked the number.

She didn't cry. Crying was a luxury for people who had a safety net to catch them when they fell. Bronwyn had a concrete floor.

She walked back to the bar.

"Tequila," she told the bartender, sliding a twenty-dollar bill from her tip jar onto the sticky wood. "The cheap stuff. Leave the bottle."

It was against policy to drink on shift. She didn't care. She poured a shot and threw it back. The liquid burned a path down her esophagus, searing away the cold numbness in her chest. She poured another. Then another. The edges of the room began to soften. The noise of the crowd became a distant hum.

The front door opened, letting in a gust of rain and a scent that didn't belong here. It was crisp. Expensive. Sandalwood and old money.

A man walked in, flanked by two larger men who looked like they chewed glass for breakfast. The man in the middle was tall. Impossibly tall. He wore a suit that fit him like a second skin, the kind of Italian tailoring that cost more than the building they were standing in.

He looked around the bar with an expression of profound distaste. His eyes, dark and sharp, scanned the grease-stained tables and the sawdust on the floor. He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if the very air was offensive to his respiratory system.

Bronwyn watched him from the bar. Her blood ran cold, then hot. It was him. Jennings Bowen. In the dim light, with his dark hair and arrogant posture, he looked like a predator who had wandered into a petting zoo.

A surge of irrational, alcohol-fueled rage flooded her veins.

She pushed off the bar stool, her balance compromising instantly. She stumbled forward, the room tilting on an axis. She collided with a solid, warm back. The tequila glass in her hand tipped, splashing amber liquid onto the pristine dark fabric of the man's jacket.

The man turned around slowly.

His eyes were cold. Not angry, just devoid of any warmth, like looking into a frozen lake. He looked down at the wet spot on his shoulder, then at her.

One of the bodyguards stepped forward, hand reaching for her.

The man in the suit raised a hand, stopping him. He stared at Bronwyn.

She looked up at him, squinting. The alcohol warped his features, overlaying the memory of his condescending smile onto his stoic face.

"What?" Bronwyn slurred, a bitter laugh bubbling up. She reached out and patted his lapel, her hand leaving a damp print. "Didn't bring your new toy out to show off? Where's the pink diamond?"

The man narrowed his eyes. He looked confused, then bored.

"If you're looking for a tip," he said, his voice a deep baritone that vibrated in the floorboards, "this is a very inefficient way to get one."

The dismissal stung more than a slap. It was the tone. The absolute certainty that she was beneath him.

Bronwyn shoved him. It was a weak shove, barely moving him an inch, but it was the intent that mattered.

"You're a pig," she spat.

He didn't move. He reached out and caught her wrist. His grip was firm, clinical. He wasn't hurting her; he was containing her. Like she was a volatile chemical that needed to be stabilized.

They locked eyes. For a second, the fog in her brain cleared enough for her to see the genuine shock in his expression. He wasn't used to being touched, let alone shoved.

Bronwyn tried to pull her arm back. The room spun violently. Her stomach, rebelling against the tequila and the stress and the lack of food, gave a warning lurch.

She pitched forward.

He let go instantly, stepping back with a look of utter disgust as if she were carrying a contagion. It was instinct. His instinct to avoid filth. His movement sent her off balance completely, and she stumbled toward the floor.

The bar went quiet. A few people whistled.

"Get a room!" someone shouted.

Jennings' jaw tightened. He looked down at her, his nose wrinkling. "Clear the way," he ordered the bodyguards, his voice low and dangerous. "Get her out of my sight."

Bronwyn looked up from her hands and knees. The nausea hit her like a tidal wave. There was no stopping it. No time to turn away.

She opened her mouth and vomited all over his handmade Italian leather shoes.

The sound of liquid hitting leather seemed to echo in the sudden silence of the bar.

The man went rigid. He looked down at his feet. His expression wasn't just angry. It was the look of a man watching his entire world order collapse.

Bronwyn's knees gave out. The last thing she saw before the darkness took her was the vein throbbing in his temple and the absolute, murderous fury in his eyes.

"Get her processed," he hissed to one of the bodyguards. "Public intoxication. Assault. I want her in a cell."