Chapter 1 - The St. Regis Setup
The low, amber glow of the St. Regis bar offered a kind of manufactured sanctuary from the cold October rain spitting against Manhattan’s asphalt outside. Inside, the air smelled of expensive bourbon, wet wool, and the distinct, quiet confidence of people who didn’t check price tags. Harper Blaine, however, checked them constantly. Her boots had cost seventy-nine dollars on clearance, and she could feel the thin sole every time the heavy front door opened and let in a draft of wind.
Beside her, the man who had answered her reckless, gin-fueled invitation sat with the poise of a predator resting in high grass. His dark wool coat was draped over the back of the tufted leather booth, revealing a crisp white shirt with the top button undone. He looked like the kind of man who didn't just walk into rooms—he owned the real estate beneath them.
Harper tapped the ivory invitation again, her acrylic nail clicking sharply against the gold-beveled edge.
"You haven't told me your name," she said, her voice dropping a fraction of an octave to match the low hum of the jazz trio playing in the corner.
The man tilted his glass, watching the amber liquid swirl around a single, massive cube of crystal-clear ice. "Names are a liability, Miss Blaine. Especially when you're planning to crash a wedding belonging to the most litigious private-equity family on the Eastern Seaboard."
Harper scoffed, though a shiver ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. "How do you know my last name? I didn't tell you."
"You dropped your corporate ID badge when you sat down," he replied smoothly, nodding toward her leather tote bag on the floor. "Harper Blaine. Senior Auditor at Sterling & Vance. Competent, underpaid, and currently nursing a vendetta against a man named Carter Hayes."
Harper crossed her arms, her defensive instincts flaring up. "Carter isn't worth a vendetta. He's a footnote. A very annoying, expensive footnote who decided that seven years of us sharing a cramped Brooklyn walk-up was just a stepping stone to marrying a billionaire's daughter."
"And yet," the stranger noted, his dark eyes shifting to hers with unsettling intensity, "you're sitting here asking a complete stranger—who looks like he spends his weekends auditing underground casinos—to play your fake fiancé at an Newport estate wedding."
"You don't look like an auditor," Harper retorted. "You look like a man who disposes of problems before breakfast."
A slow, dangerous smile finally broke across his face. It didn't reach his eyes, but it completely transformed the hard planes of his jaw. "Maybe I do. But if I walk into that ballroom with you, Harper, we play by my rules. No improvising. No emotional outbursts. And absolutely no looking back."
Harper swallowed hard. The air in the bar suddenly felt thin. She had only meant it as a joke—a dark, desperate fantasy born of too many martinis and too much heartbreak. But looking at the thin scar across his eyebrow and the cold, unyielding certainty in his shoulders, she knew there was no turning back.
"Deal," she whispered, extending her hand.
May you like
He looked at her small, trembling hand for a long moment before sliding his large, calloused palm over hers. His grip was firm, warm, and entirely inescapable.
"My name is Christian," he said softly, his thumb brushing the back of her knuckles. "And tomorrow, Harper, we are going to ruin a wedding."
