The champagne in the crystal flute was worth more than Aria's entire struggling existence. She knew this because she had checked the label in the pantry before balancing the bottle on her tray.
Dom Pérignon, 2015.
Aria wove through the sea of tuxedos and designer silk gowns. The ballroom of the Pierre Hotel overlooking Central Park smelled of expensive perfume, old money, and the metallic tang of ambition. It was a scent she used to wear on her own skin, back when she was Aria Sterling, heiress to the Sterling Tech empire.
Now, she was just "Staff."
"More bubbly, miss?" a heavyset man asked, snapping his fingers near her face without looking at her.
"Of course, sir," Aria said, her voice a practiced, hollow polite. She placed a fresh glass on his coaster and deftly removed the empty one. He didn't say thank you. They never did. To them, she was invisible, like a floating pair of hands in a black waistcoat and trousers that were a size too big.
But invisibility had its perks.
Aria moved toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, the winter rain of New York City lashing against the glass outside. She scanned the room, ignoring the ache in her feet, looking for one specific face.
Ethan Vance.
The name tasted like poison. The man who had orchestrated the hostile takeover of her father's company. The man who had stood at her father's funeral in San Francisco, checking his watch while they lowered the casket. He was currently the CEO of the conglomerate that had swallowed her family's legacy whole.
She spotted him near the jazz quartet.
He looked different in person than on the cover of Forbes. Taller. Sharper. He wore a tuxedo that fit him with killer precision. While others laughed and mingled, he stood with one hand in his pocket, listening to a frantic-looking executive, his expression bored, almost assessingly detached.
Aria's grip on the silver tray tightened.
Just get the thumbprint. Get out.
Her plan was insane. It was the kind of plan born from sleepless nights and desperate hospital bills. Her younger brother, Julian, had been moved to the general ward yesterday because her credit card had declined. He needed surgery, and the only thing left of value Aria possessed was a small, encrypted USB drive she had found in her father's old safety deposit box.
It was a "Black Box"- a digital record of every illegal transaction made during the takeover. But it was biometric-locked. It needed a thumbprint from the current CEO to open the root directory.
Aria adjusted her collar. She had "borrowed" a high-tech scanner film from an old contact of her father's—a thin, transparent sticker currently adhered to the bottom of the finest crystal glass on her tray. If she could just get Ethan Vance to hold that specific glass for five seconds, she would have his print.
She took a breath, pushed down the nausea rising in her throat, and stepped into the lion's den.
"Champagne, Mr. Vance?"
Ethan didn't turn immediately. He finished listening to the executive before dismissing him with a subtle nod. Only then did he turn.
Aria felt the air leave her lungs.
His eyes were not the cold, dead shark eyes she expected. They were dark, yes, but intense like obsidian. He looked at the tray, then up at her face. For a second, Aria panicked. Did he recognize her? It had been three years. She had cut her hair, lost weight, and the heavy makeup required by the catering agency masked her features.
"No," he said. His voice was deep, American, and utterly indifferent.
"It's the vintage reserve, sir," Aria pressed, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I was told you prefer it."
Ethan paused. He looked at her again, his gaze lingering on her hands, which were shaking ever so slightly.
"I don't drink while I'm working," he said.
"Working?" Aria forced a smile. "It's a gala, sir. Surely you can relax for a moment."
The man beside him laughed nervously. "She's right, Ethan! The girl is just doing her job."
Ethan's jaw tightened. He reached out.
Time seemed to warp. Aria watched his hand (large, with long, elegant fingers) move toward the tray. Toward the trap.
Closer. Closer.
His fingers brushed the stem of the glass. The sensor sticker was right there, on the wide bowl of the flute. He just needed to grip it.
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed through the hall.
Ethan's hand froze inches from the glass.
Across the room, a waiter had tripped, sending a pyramid of shrimp cocktails crashing to the marble floor. The sound was like a gunshot in the polite hum of the party. The crowd gasped and turned.
Ethan pulled his hand back. "Excuse me," he muttered, turning away from her to look at the commotion.
Aria wanted to scream. She had been so close.
"Wait," she said, stepping forward impulsively. It was a mistake. Waiters didn't chase guests.
Ethan stopped and turned back, his brow furrowed. "Is there something else?"
Aria froze. She was pushing too hard. Suspicion flickered in his eyes now. A man like Ethan Vance didn't survive Wall Street by being oblivious. He stared at her, analyzing her posture, her desperation.
"You look familiar," he said slowly.
Aria's blood ran cold. "I—I have a common face, sir."
"Do you?" He took a step closer. The scent of him was overwhelming. "You're trembling. And you're sweating. Is the tray too heavy?"
"No, sir."
"Then why are you looking at me like you want to slit my throat?"
The bluntness of the question caught her off guard. "I... I'm just nervous. It's my first night."
"Liar," he whispered.
He reached out, not for the glass, but for her wrist. His grip was firm, warm, and shocking. He pulled her hand closer, inspecting the tray. His eyes narrowed as they landed on the specific glass she had positioned for him. He tilted his head, noticing the faint shimmer of the transparent sticker on the bottom.
He didn't know what it was, but he knew it didn't belong.
"Who sent you?" he asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Harrington? The Russians?"
"Let go of me," she hissed.
Ethan's eyes widened slightly at the change in her tone. "There she is," he murmured. "The fire."
He was about to say something else when a woman in a dazzling silver dress materialized at his elbow.
"Ethan! Darling!"
It was Sienna Blake, a supermodel and the current face of his company's ad campaign. She looked from Ethan to Aria with a sneer. "Is this waitress bothering you?"
Ethan didn't let go of Aria's wrist. He looked from Sienna back to Aria, a calculation running behind his dark eyes.
"No," Ethan said, his voice unreadable. "She was just leaving."
He released Aria's wrist with a small shove. "Get out of my sight."
Aria stumbled back, clutching the tray to her chest. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought she might faint. She had failed. She had almost been caught. And worse, she had blown her cover. Ethan Vance knew her face now.
She turned and fled, weaving through the crowd as fast as she could without running. She shoved through the double doors of the kitchen, dumping the tray on a metal counter with a clatter.
"Hey! Watch it!" the head of catering yelled.
Aria ignored him. She had to leave. Now. Before he realized who she was. Before he checked security footage. She ditched her apron in the laundry bin and ran out the service exit into the freezing New York night.
The alleyway was dark, smelling of wet asphalt and exhaust. Snow was starting to fall. Aria leaned against the brick wall, gasping for air.
Julian.
The thought of her brother lying in that hospital bed, waiting for a surgery she couldn't afford, broke her. She slid down the wall, burying her face in her hands. She had failed him. She was useless.
"Rough night?"
The voice came from the shadows.
Aria's head snapped up.
A sleek black Maybach was parked near the curb, its engine idling silently. The rear window rolled down.
Ethan Vance sat in the back seat. He wasn't looking at her; he was scrolling through a tablet.
"Get in," he said.
Aria scrambled to her feet, backing away. "I—I'm not—"
"I know who you are, Aria Sterling," he said, still not looking up.
The sound of her real name stopped her dead in her tracks.
He swiped a finger across his screen. "Aria Sterling. Age 23. Dropped out of Stanford Business School three years ago. Daughter of the late Marcus Sterling. Currently broke."
He looked up. His expression was terrifyingly calm.
"You were trying to lift a print off me. Amateur work, by the way. If you want to steal biometrics, you use the handle of a door, not a wine glass. Glass condenses; it ruins the ridge detail."
Aria stared at him, unable to speak. He knew everything.
"Why?" she whispered. "Why didn't you turn me in inside?"
"Because," Ethan opened the car door. "I don't need the police. I need you."
He gestured to the leather seat beside him.
"Your brother, Julian. Congenital heart failure. The surgery at Mount Sinai costs two hundred thousand dollars. The hospital is threatening to discharge him tomorrow if the deposit isn't paid."
Aria felt like he had punched her in the gut. "Don't you dare talk about him."
"I can pay it," Ethan said simply. "Right now."
Aria's anger wavered, replaced by a sickening wave of hope.
"What do you want?" she asked, her voice trembling. "My silence?"
Ethan smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"I need a wife."
The alleyway went silent.
"Excuse me?"
"Not a real one, obviously," Ethan waved his hand dismissively. "I need a fiancée. My board of directors is getting restless. They think I'm 'unstable' because I'm single at thirty. They want to oust me. I need to show them I'm stable."
He looked at her, assessing her.
"You have the pedigree. You know the business world. You know how to hold a fork correctly, which is more than I can say for the models I usually date. And most importantly..."
He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto hers.
"...you hate me. which means you won't fall in love with me and complicate things."
Aria stared at him. It was madness. It was a deal with the devil. This man had destroyed her father. And now he wanted to buy her like a piece of furniture.
"I would rather die," she spat.
Ethan shrugged. "Okay."
He reached for the door handle. "Good luck. I heard state care is... difficult this time of year."
Aria flinched. She saw Julian's face. She couldn't let him die. She couldn't.
"Wait!"
Ethan paused, the door halfway closed.
Aria took a step forward. Her pride was screaming, but her heart was weeping. She looked at the man who had ruined her life, and she made a choice. "Pay the hospital. Confirm the surgery."
Ethan looked at her for a long moment. Then, he pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and turned it around to face her.
Transfer Confirmed: $250,000 to Mount Sinai Hospital.
"Get in the car, Aria," Ethan said softly. "We have a contract to write."
Aria looked at the dark interior of the car. It looked like a cage. She took a deep breath of the freezing air, stepped forward, and slid into the darkness beside him.
The door slammed shut, sealing her fate.