With her palms, Emily Chen pressed down the silk dress once more. Midnight blue. Too shiny under the lights. Her fingers wouldn't stop twitching. Her reflection was ghosted over the entrance as she realized she was gazing at the Grandmont Hotel's glass doors. Not bad, not great. The dress looked like it belonged to someone who had more money and better posture.
Thirty-seven dollars. She knew the exact number because she'd winced when the clerk rang it up. A steal, technically. In the 1990s, someone likely wore it to a red carpet. The clutch—twenty bucks more. The heels? Borrowed. Half a size too small. Her roommate's idea of generosity.
"You've got this," she muttered at the glass. Then louder, as if confidence could be bullied into existence: "One night. Just smile. Don't touch the priceless stuff. And for God's sake, don't embarrass yourself."
The doorman's uniform, which had gleaming gold braids, was like a barrier. He opened the door with a move so smooth it felt rehearsed. Emily stepped through like she was trespassing.
The lobby was ridiculous. Marble floors that reflected every footstep. Chandeliers that threw rainbows everywhere. Paintings on the walls that probably cost more than her college tuition. The foyer might have accommodated her entire apartment complex. Twice.
"Good evening, miss." The doorman was courteous but aloof, as evidenced by his smile. "Sterling Foundation Gala, forty-second floor."
Forty-second. Her stomach dropped. She wasn't built for altitude. The only other time she'd been that high was when her mom worked a hospital job, and the elevator had broken halfway up.
This elevator didn't break, but it crawled. Her ears popped somewhere around the twentieth. She stared at the floor numbers blinking, calculating how many years of rent each of these offices must cost. By the time the doors opened with a too-soft ding, she was almost dizzy.
The ballroom hit her like a punch. Too much gold, too much sparkle. Chandeliers the size of SUVs. A painted ceiling where cherubs lounged in clouds, smug in their immortality. Women drifted past in dresses worth entire budgets. Neat little amounts of money, groups of guys in tuxedos. Their laughter had edges, sharp and cold, like champagne that had been sitting too long on ice.
Emily grabbed a glass from a tray before she could lose her nerve. The waiter didn't glance at her at all; he was carrying the crystal flute in his gloved hand as if it were weightless. It felt fragile in her fingers, and she gripped it too tightly, terrified it would snap.
She hadn't wanted to come. With her face pale over the toilet bowl, Sarah had pleaded. We will lose the slot if we don't go there. If we lose the slot, no funding. Please, Em. So here she was.
"The Sterling Foundation gives millions," Sarah had croaked that morning. "Just… network. Look good. Smile. Make them care. Easy."
Easy. Sure. Emily glanced around. Wealth radiated off the walls like heat. It seemed to be pressing against her, pushing her back toward the lift.
She sipped the champagne. Expensive, no doubt. The bubbles burned in her nose. Conversations floated past her like another language. The Maldives. Ski chalets. Private schools with names that sounded like law firms—Exeter, Dalton.
Emily cleared her throat, practicing under her breath. "The poverty rate in Manhattan is staggering. With your support, we could reach three times as many families."
"Excuse me?"
She spun. Almost sloshed champagne down her dress. A man stood there, older, kind-eyed, his suit clearly worth more than her yearly rent. But his smile wasn't fake.
"Were you talking to me?" he asked.
"Oh! Sorry, no, I was—well, kind of. Practicing." She managed a shaky smile. "Emily Chen, Riverside Community Center."
His eyes brightened. "Wonderful. Robert Sterling."
Her jaw dropped. Not just a guest. The Robert Sterling. Tech billionaire, philanthropist, the reason the gala even existed.
The glass wobbled in her hand. "Oh my God—I mean, "I apologize, Mr. Sterling, for muttering like a lunatic—"
"Robert," he interrupted, amused. His laugh was warm. "You're fine. Nervousness is rare around here. Refreshing, even. Most of these people are so polished they could double as statues."
Her shoulders loosened. Just a little. She launched into their programs, relief flooding her words. And he listened, which was more than she'd expected. Until suddenly he didn't.
The air shifted. The room seemed to tilt. Conversations thinned, eyes pulled toward the ballroom's entrance. Even Sterling himself glanced past her.
He excused himself gently, with a knowing smile. "Someone I need to greet."
Emily turned—and her stomach lurched again.
The man walking in was… well, unfair. Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair that looked accidental but obviously wasn't. A tuxedo cut so sharp it probably required its own insurance.
His face was the worst part. Cheekbones that could slice paper, a jawline that belonged on a monument, eyes gray and cold. He moved like he owned gravity itself. The crowd shifted around him automatically, orbiting.
"That's Alexander Drake," a woman whispered near Emily, breath hitching. "Drake Industries. He's worth more than entire countries."
Of course she knew the name. Everyone did. Drake Industries touched everything—tech, real estate, finance. If money moved, so did he.
Emily stared, forgetting herself, until her back hit something solid. Heat.
Her glass slipped. Time slowed. Champagne arced in the air, glinting under chandeliers, then exploded across Alexander Drake's perfect white shirt.
The room didn't fall silent, not exactly—but close. Heads turned. Emily froze. Champagne ran down fabric that probably cost more than her entire closet.
He looked down. Then up. And the air in her lungs evaporated. His gaze was direct, cold, cataloguing.
She stammered, "I—I'm so sorry," as she tried to reach for a napkin that wasn't there. "I didn't see you—"
"Clearly." He had a low, almost growling voice, and he spoke clearly. They thudded into her chest. "One might wonder what someone who can't manage a glass is doing here at all."
The sting was immediate. The crowd leaned closer. Emily's face burned, but it wasn't embarrassment now. It was heat, sharp and angry.
"One might also wonder," she shot back, her voice carrying further than she meant, "what kind of man judges someone by spilled champagne instead of the work they do for people who actually need help."
Silence. Even the quartet faltered.
His eyes narrowed. Then shifted, just slightly, as if something new flickered behind them—interest? Amusement?
He stepped closer. Close enough she could smell him, something sharp and expensive. His voice lowered. "And what work would that be?"
Emily's chin lifted. "Programs that protect children while their parents have three jobs." Training for people the world pretends not to see. The work you cut checks for so you can sleep better at night without getting your hands dirty."
The air between them hummed. Phones lifted discreetly around them.
Drake dabbed at his shirt with a pristine white handkerchief, never breaking eye contact. His mouth curved faintly. "People like me," he echoed. Almost amused.
He stepped in again. In order to continue looking at him, she was forced to tilt her head back. The space between them tightened, charged.
"Tell me," he murmured, voice meant for her alone, "do you always introduce yourself quite this dramatically, Miss…?"
"Chen," she breathed. "Emily Chen."
"Emily Chen." He repeated it like he was trying the taste of it. "You've already made my evening more educational than I expected."
And then—he touched her chin. One finger, brief, almost casual. Electricity shot down her spine.
"I'll be curious," he said softly, "to learn what else you can teach."
Then he was gone, already moving through the crowd, gravity re-centering itself around him.
Emily stood frozen in the middle of too many eyes. Her dress was wet. Her cheeks burned. Her phone buzzed in her clutch—Sarah, probably.
She glanced down at the champagne stain, then back at the space where Alexander Drake had disappeared.
Something had shifted. She didn't know what. But she knew—dropping champagne on Alexander Drake was either the best mistake she'd ever made. Or the worst.