Chapter 1

The fluorescent lights of the 24-hour diner hummed.

My shift was almost over.

Another one started in two hours, across town, at a coffee shop.

The tips from this greasy spoon in Chicago barely covered the interest on Dad's old business debts.

Then there were my own medical bills.

A constant, dull ache throbbed in my lower back, a reminder of the kidney I no longer had.

They said it was for a good cause, for a relative of Victoria Blake.

The money they gave me vanished fast. The debt collectors didn't care.

My phone buzzed on the sticky counter. An unknown New York number.

I almost ignored it.

"Hello?"

A crisp, formal voice. "Miss Miller?艾莉·米勒?"

"Yes."

"This is Mr. Henderson, assistant to Mr. Ethan Nolan. Mrs. Margaret Nolan is gravely ill. She has been asking for you."

Margaret.

A warmth spread through my chest, a feeling I hadn't felt in years.

She had been kind. A patron of my mother's art, long ago.

"I... I don't have money for a flight."

"A bus ticket has been arranged. It leaves tomorrow morning."

The line went dead.

New York. Ethan.

My stomach twisted.

The bus ride was a blur of cheap coffee and the smell of stale cigarettes.

Thirty hours later, I stumbled out of Port Authority, a duffel bag with my few possessions slung over my shoulder.

He was there.

Ethan Nolan.

Leaning against a black Mercedes, he looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine.

Tall, expensive suit, an impatient frown.

He scanned the crowd, his gaze passing over me once, twice.

I walked towards him.

"Ethan."

He straightened, his eyes narrowing.

A flicker of something – surprise? Disgust? – crossed his face.

"Ellie?"

I nodded, clutching the strap of my bag.

My clothes were worn, my face too thin. I knew what he saw.

Not the Ellie Miller from the society pages years ago, before my father's world collapsed.

He gestured curtly to the car. "Get in. You took the bus?"

His tone was flat, cold.

The car smelled of new leather and something faintly floral.

Victoria's perfume, probably.

He drove. I sat in the back.

The silence was heavy.

Years ago, I would have chattered, desperate for his attention.

He always met it with a cool indifference. He never liked me.

Now, I was just tired. I wanted to sleep.

A small, velvet jewelry box sat on the passenger seat.

I looked away, out the window. That seat wasn't for me.

I knew that much.

"You have nothing to say?" His voice startled me.

I met his eyes in the rearview mirror.

"What is there to say?"

What did he expect? Apologies? Explanations for my poverty?

He cut me off before I could form another thought.

"Just call me Ethan. We're not close. You're here because my grandmother asked for you. Don't get any ideas."

My lips felt stiff.

"Okay."

A pause.

"Is... is Margaret very sick?"

He didn't answer, but his jaw tightened.

The silence was answer enough.

My hands clenched in my lap.

The few people who had ever shown me genuine kindness, were they all going to leave me?

The thought was a cold stone in my gut.

He glanced at me again in the mirror.

"Someone once told me I was a disaster star. Bad luck for everyone. No good relationships in my future."

I said it quietly, mostly to myself.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened. I saw his knuckles whiten.

Just for a second.

Then his face was a mask again.