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  His hand finds my lower back again, and I bring the glass to my lips. One couldn’t hurt. The liquid is bubbly on my tongue, tickling my throat as it glides down effortlessly. Sweet but not too sweet. It tastes like privilege and glamour.

  He leans in.

  “You like?” His voice is low and vibrates off my ear drum.

  I nod and take another sip.

  “You’re going to like it here,” he says, scanning the large room. We’re in the living room of someone’s palatial penthouse, that’s about all I know. “I can tell already. You fit right in.” Leaning in again, he points to a group of suited men chatting near a lit fireplace. “See those sorry bastards over there? They’ve been staring at you since we walked in the door tonight.”

  One of them looks my way, letting his gaze linger. He doesn’t care that I see him gawking. It’s almost as if he’s challenging me to a staring contest? My confidence buckles, and I look away first.

  How could he possibly know if I’m attractive when half of my face is covered?

  A warm flush floods my cheeks when I remember the too-tight dress hugging my body, accentuating my curves.

  That’s what they’re staring at.

  “Does that bother you?” I ask. Because I think it would. I’m here with him. As his date. All the guys my age get jealous so easily.

  He tosses back a mouthful of champagne, swallows it clean. “No. I love it actually.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “They wish they were here with you, Sophie,” he says with his velvet tenor. “But they’re not. And it kills them. That feels good to me—to have something everyone else wants but can’t have.”

  “So I’m a possession to you?”

  His hand slips into mine, giving it a squeeze and lifting it to his lips to deposit a kiss. “Oh, God. Sophie, no. I didn’t mean it that way. I just … I enjoy showing you off. You’re gorgeous, and tonight, you’re mine. I’m a lucky man, that’s all. You should know that.”

  My stomach tightens. The sensation of being desired by someone like him is foreign, exhilarating in a way I’ve yet to know in my seventeen years.

  I had a crush on Devon Peterson for three years before he finally noticed me, and when I heard through the grapevine he thought I was “kind of cute,” it didn’t feel half as wonderful as it feels when my date’s eyes drink me in from behind his shiny onyx mask.

  “We should make our rounds before dinner,” he says. “There are a few people I’d like to introduce you to.”

  I hook my hand into my date’s elbow, and for the hour that follows, I get lightheaded off flute after flute of champagne as he takes me from one masked party goer to the next. The floor is wobbly beneath my heels and the sparkling chandeliers spin above like crystal stars. A string quartet of masked players serenades us from another room.

  “Why do we use our real names if we’re all wearing masks?” I ask him when the host calls us all to the dining room. I’m drunk. I think.

  Everything around me swirls.

  I can’t stop grinning.

  I want to laugh at everything he says, which is suddenly ten times funnier for no reason at all.

  And I love the way the fabric of his suit feels under my palm. It reminds me of junior prom, when the guys rent the nice tuxes from the store on the square and everything is stiff and formal and fancy and special.

  Pulling me aside, he leads me to a private hallway. He lifts his hand to my cheek, and my face feels small. He presses his body against mine, delicately pinning me to the wall.

  I want to curl up inside him, be here forever in this magical moment where everything is new and exciting and I’m not Sophie-with-the-hand-me-downs, Sophie with the sick mom and disabled sister, Sophie who waits tables to pay her family’s rent.

  I’m simply … his.

  Nothing more, nothing less.

  “You’re having fun, yes?” he asks, his dark eyes dancing in mine.

  I bite my lip, nodding, breathing in the sharp citrus of his aftershave.

  “The people here, they have silly little rules,” he says. “It’s like a club where people use code names.”

  “… but you gave them my real name.” My tongue is heavy and my words slur into each other. I can’t talk right but I can still think. My logic is intact.

  “It’s different when you’re not an actual member.”

  “So only the men here are members?” I ask.

  He hesitates. “It’s like that, yes. Think of it as a fraternity.”

  My older cousin was in a fraternity in college. I know how obsessed those guys can get. How they pledge their loyalty, become like brothers, and do anything for each other.

  “Members with code names?” I still don’t understand, not fully.

  “Yes.” He sweeps a strand of hair from my forehead. “Exactly.”

  “Your name isn’t John, is it?” Maybe it’s the champagne, but the question leaves my lips before I consider the fact that I might not want to know the answer.

  “No, Sophie.” He sighs with a smile, as if he finds my question endearing. “It’s not.”

  The host calls from the next room, asking about the two empty chairs.

  “We have to go,” he says. “We can’t keep them waiting.”

  “Wait. I want to know your name. Your real name.” I tug on the lapels of his suit coat, bouncing on the balls of my feet, narrowing the space between us—like a silent, unconscious plea for him to kiss me.

  To know me.

  To be real with me.

  He’s been looking at me like he wants to devour me all night, and it’s only a matter of time before it happens. I know it. I sense it in my bones. Whatever’s between us, it’s electric. The truest thing I’ve ever felt.

  “You will.” His thumb traces my lower lip, and then he lowers his mouth to mine, stealing a kiss without asking—the way Kai Masterson did at homecoming last fall. Only he tasted like Burger King French fries and smelled like Axe body spray. “John” tastes like sweet bubbles and smells like a dream. His lips are hot on mine and his kiss lingers for three seconds … I count them. “We’ll talk after dinner. I’ll tell you everything.”

  Slipping his hand in mine, he leads me to the dining room, and I’m grateful for the low lights that hide the blush of my cheeks as all eyes pivot in our direction, likely wondering where we ran off to and what we were doing. I imagine they think we shared more than an innocent kiss in a quiet hallway.

  He slides my chair out. Pushes it in. Takes a seat beside me.

  While we’re far from the head of the table, the chairs are massive and throne-like, and in a strange sort of way, I feel like his queen.

  Whoever he is.

  Six

  Trey

  Present

  It’s been twenty-four hours since I gave Sophie that contract, and the only thing she’s given me in return is deafening silence.

  Still not giving up.

  She’ll come around.

  “Let me ask you this.” I shove the stack of manila folders back to Broderick. Supposedly these are backups. But they might as well be college applications, and I don’t have time to pore over stacks of women who aren’t her. “How many hours did you waste this afternoon doing this?”

  “It’s good to have options,” he says from across my desk.

  “Where did you even find these people?” I reach for the top folder, flipping it open to reveal a glossy-haired brunette with double Ds protruding off her bony chest. Her smile easily consumes the lower half of her face, teeth too perfect to be real. And her eyes are sad. God, they’re so fucking sad. I shove that one aside and glance at the next. Not that I’m considering any of them. “This one’s from Serbia. Ames is going to think she’s a fucking mail-order bride.”

  “She already has her green card.” He points to a paragraph on the bottom, summarizing her “qualities.”

  According to this, her name is Petra and she speaks four languages. She spent eight years in the Moscow Ball
et Company, one of them as prima ballerina. Now she practices immigration law pro bono. Honorable, but she’s not the one for me.

  The next girl is Tiffin Wisecup Hurstfield.

  I know those names: Wisecup and Hurstfield.

  She comes from blue-blooded old money. Her mother and father spawn from a long line of thoroughbred breeders and international shipping magnates respectively. If her parents haven’t yet fixed her up with someone in their vast and extensive social circle, she’s likely damaged goods.

  Also, her face has had way too much fucking work. Lips like swollen sausages. Chipmunk cheeks. Baby doll lashes down to her nose. Brows lifted to the middle of her forehead so she appears permanently surprised. She looks ten years older than her actual age and plastic as hell.

  I’ll be damned if I sire a child with a human fuck doll.

  “I don’t know whether to thank you or to be offended,” I tell him. “Clearly you have no idea what I like, and after ten years working for me, I’m not sure what that says about our professional relationship.”

  “It’s a start.” He’s unfazed as always.

  “It’s not a start, Broderick. It’s a fucking joke is what it is,” I say. “Stop wasting my time and get me Sophie.”

  He clears his throat, folds his hands in front of him, expression wiped clean. We’ve worked together long enough that I know he’s about to tell me something I don’t want to hear.

  “All due respect, Trey, there’s only so much I can do. I can’t make someone be with you if they don’t want to be with you. Obviously money’s not a motivating factor for this woman if she’s willing to walk away from almost twenty mil. We could double, triple our offer, and I don’t know that it would matter.” He exhales. “Maybe she’s not interested in fake. Maybe she wants real love. A real family—not a contractual agreement.”

  I lean back in my chair, my fingers grazing my mouth. It’s easy to forget that some people give a shit about things besides the number of zeroes in their bank account.

  “So I’ll give her real.” I don’t know how. I’ve never done real in my life. But I’ll fucking try if it means getting her to sign on the dotted line.

  “Too late, don’t you think? You told her you need a wife, someone to give you a child. You told her you were willing to pay a lot of money for that. No offense, but none of that sounds romantic. You start pursuing her, she’s going to see through it.”

  I grab the stack of files and page through a few more before discarding them all in the “big fat fucking no” pile. There are perfectly good candidates in here. Educated. Beautiful. Well-traveled. Laundry lists of accolades. Most of them would serve the purpose fine, at least on paper.

  But Sophie has something they don’t have—self-respect … the kind of thing you can’t illustrate with honors, awards, and pedigreed names. You can buy fake tits and lip fillers, but you can’t buy self-worth.

  It’s priceless.

  “I want you to call her into a private meeting this afternoon. Double the offer and give her another twenty-four hours to reconsider,” I say. Most of the time, if you give someone a sharp deadline, it lights a fire.

  Urgency is key.

  “Tell her she’s the only one I’m considering,” I say. It’s proven that if you know someone is interested in you—romantically, professionally or otherwise—they’ll think about you more. This could soften her resolve, make her reexamine her decision, contemplate what our future could look like.

  I slide the stack of file folders into the garbage can beside my desk.

  Broderick shows himself out.

  When he’s gone, I call my third assistant—the one who handles my social calendar. ”Set up a reservation at The Black Lotus in downtown Chicago for Friday night. And make it for two.”

  I’m taking her out.

  And then I’m making her mine.

  Seven

  Sophie

  Past

  We’re parked outside my apartment, his hand resting dangerously between my knees. My hemline is pulled high, making the exposed flesh of my pale thighs glow in the moonlight. The clock on the dash says it’s after midnight.

  If my mother has any energy, she’s going to use it to kill me the second I walk through the door, I’m certain.

  “I wish I could take you home with me,” he whispers, his breath hot against my flesh. A spray of goose bumps peppers my arms.

  “Me too,” I exhale. My hand rests over his, guiding it beneath the hem of my dress, closer to the heat between my legs. My heart pounds in my teeth and my mind frees itself of all logic and reason. My mother could be watching from the living room window, and I wouldn’t notice or care. All that matters in this moment is him.

  I am drunk—with lust, with excitement, with possibilities.

  His hand slides away. His mouth leaves mine. He draws in a long breath and runs a palm along the glossy leather steering wheel.

  “Take me home with you,” I begged him. “I don’t care if I get in trouble. I’ll deal with her tomorrow.”

  It’s the strangest anomaly when you’re not thinking clearly and you know it. I blame it on the champagne. And the knots of unfulfilled anticipation tangling my insides. I’ve never wanted something—or someone—as much as I want him.

  It just feels right.

  “Sophie, I had a great time with you tonight,” he says, an air of regret in his voice like a boy about to dump a girl. “But this can never be … anything.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The inside of his car is humid with desire, thick with discomfiture. I crack the window and swallow a lungful of crisp night air.

  “I’m twice your age,” he says.

  “That didn’t stop you from asking me on a date. It didn’t keep you from putting your hands all over me tonight.” I lift my hand to my neck, fingertips trailing all the places still warm from his kiss.

  “I saw a beautiful girl and I lost my mind.” He sighs and looks at me sideways. “I wanted to remember what it was like to feel young again.”

  “You’re not that old.” I huff and glance away.

  “I’m old enough to be your father.”

  I roll my eyes. I don’t like to think of my father—ever, and I especially don’t want to think of him in this moment. He walked out of our lives when I was three and my mother was six months pregnant with my baby sister. As far as I’m concerned, he isn’t just dead to me, he never existed in the first place.

  “When’s your birthday, Sophie?” he asks. Does he want to buy me something? Is he trying to pay me off so he feels better?

  “I don’t want anything from you.” I reach for the door handle. I don’t see what it matters. He places his hand on my arm, gently stopping me.

  “Fair enough,” he says.

  “I should go. My mom’s waiting.”

  “Sophie …” He says my name soft, like he doesn’t want me to go yet—quite the contradiction from a moment ago when he was all but discarding me.

  I turn to him, peering through a sideways glance. “You still haven’t told me your real name.”

  I asked him again after dinner, when we were dancing in a crowd of other black-clad, masked guests, and he leaned in to whisper that he would tell me later. On the car ride home, he played music from a chill playlist on his phone and held my hand. The volume was too loud to speak over, and I found myself wanting to soak in every second of the journey back to my humble apartment on Flor Street, on the other side of the river.

  I suppose it doesn’t matter what his name is.

  Tonight was a one-and-done kind of thing.

  He wanted me on his arm, he got me, now it’s over.

  Removing my arm from his tender grasp, I leave him with a stinger, “I had a lot of fun with you tonight … whoever you are.”

  I hope he chokes on his conscience.

  I tug on the door handle. A burst of night air blankets my lower legs as I step out. My feet ache and burn from dancing all night. I wonder how long I’ve been
in pain but too drunk-in-lust to notice?

  “Nolan,” he says. “My name is Nolan Ames.”

  The name is vaguely familiar, like I’ve seen it on billboards or the side of semi-trucks or something. Maybe an ad on TV? It’s hard to know with my mind so foggy.

  “When is your birthday?” he asks again.

  “Why?”

  “Because I …” he begins to speak then stops. “I want to see you again.”

  I don’t answer. Instead, I slam his passenger door. The window glides down, smooth and sleek. While he wasn’t looking earlier, I Googled his car out of curiosity because I’d never seen anything like it before. I wasn’t even sure how to pronounce it.

  According to my research, this thing costs half a million dollars.

  I don’t know that I’ll even see that kind of money in my lifetime.

  “You said this could never be anything. You said I’m young enough to be your daughter. I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but—”

  “I know what I said,” he cuts me off. “But I think if you were … a little older … maybe I wouldn’t feel so guilty. Maybe this wouldn’t feel so wrong? Maybe it … maybe it could be something?”

  “My birthday’s in three weeks,” I say. “If three weeks is the difference between right and wrong for you—”

  “—this is new to me too,” he says. “The age difference thing.”

  “You pursued me for months before you asked me out.”

  “You’re right,” he says. “Because after the first time I saw you, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. But after I asked around and found out your age, I knew it was wrong.”

  “That party you took me to tonight,” I say, “why there? Why not just dinner?”

  His lips flatten. “Because it would be masked, because it would give us some anonymity so we could enjoy the night. And given the circumstances, it seemed safer. Being seen together, Sophie, it could be a liability for me. Professionally. If anyone were to find out your age …”