Chapter 1
ARI—FOURTEEN YEARS LATER
As I run the tip of my forefinger in a circle around the lip of my cocktail glass, a loud roar of jovial laughter from behind me fills the bustling bar, pulling me out of the hypnotizing movement.
It’s packed to the rafters with white-collar workers, and the noise levels rise as they celebrate the start of their weekend.
In the mirror along the back wall, I cast my eyes down the line of people seated to the left and right of me, chatting, laughing, and catching up with friends.
This time next week, it will be me kicking back, rejoicing the two days away from my new boss: the son of a corrupt man. And while I won’t be working for him directly, simply being within reach of his orbit makes me want to scrub my skin raw.
My new job is a means to an end.
I have a plan.
I’m uncertain whether I can accomplish it, but I will give it my best shot. For my family’s sake.
Unease runs through my veins, causing me to wiggle on my barstool.
To settle my nerves, I lift the cocktail to my lips, enjoying the bittersweet taste of my Manhattan, the herbal undertones filling my mouth with full flavor and making me hum in response.
I rest my glass down on top of the hammered copper-topped bar.
That hit the spot. I already feel better.
“Can I get you a drink?” A man appears next to me.
Here we go. Cheesiest pick-up line ever.
Letting out a dramatic groan, I twist my neck in the direction of the man who the cocksure voice belongs to, and recognizing him instantly, I look away.
Predictable.
“I’m good, thanks.” I rest my hand over my now empty glass.
I wondered if he would have the balls to talk to me. After all, he’s been watching me in the mirror for the last half hour.
Far from subtle, he’s been checking me out, making eye contact, then looking away, smirking, then looking back. He’s an incorrigible flirt.
So cliché.
Just, no.
Flipping my long brown hair over my shoulder, I survey him once again.
I swear this guy, in what looks like a suit that costs more than my entire shoe collection, must do this every Friday night. He’s not specifically interested in me. Nope, not at all.
It’s because I’m a new face and have never been in this bar before.
I’m fresh meat and judging by the length of his incisors, he wants to eat me alive.
Eh, no thanks; I’d rather chew off my own left arm.
“Are you sure I can’t buy you a drink? Because it looks like you could use a refill.” He lifts his hand to get the bartender’s attention.
I shake my head in response. “I’m fine, but thank you.” I push the glass away from me.
Resting his forearm on the bar, he stares at me, turning the awkward dial up to a solid ten. “It’s like that, is it?” he asks.
I don’t follow. “Like what?” I gesture with open palms.
“You want to cut out the niceties and just come back to my apartment?” He tilts his head to the side, and his hooded eyes drop down my body before his mouth shapes a smug grin.
Presumptuous asshole.
Knowing exactly what he’s implying, I ask, “I’m curious; what led you to believe that?”
He moves closer to me, his mouth finding the shell of my ear. “Because for the last thirty minutes you’ve been eye-fucking me in the mirror.” His words feel like ice chips being poured down the back of my dress, and I shiver in disgust.
The delusional prick.
Since I arrived, he’s been undressing me with his eyes, not the other way around.
I lean out of his closeness that I don’t appreciate and pull a fake smile. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
He flashes me his teeth, looking pleased with himself, as if he’s already assumed he’s won me over. “Chase,” he answers.
“Well, Chase.” I twirl my hair around my finger playfully. “You see, I don’t know what your wife would say if I went home with you, do you?”
He flinches, snapping backward as if I’d slapped him. “My wife? Shit, how do you know her? Is this a set-up?” His voice trembles, brows growing worried with lines, and his gaze darts around the bar.
Coolly, I reply, “Here’s the thing, Chase. Guys like you are so easy to spot. Your wedding finger has a clear indent in it as well as a tan line.” I point to his left hand as I turn to the side on my barstool to face him full on.
I slowly cross my black stocking-covered legs and continue.
“Your wedding ring is now wrapped around the ring finger of your other hand, but it’s too big for it, and that’s why you keep fiddling with it.
” He stops immediately, tucking his hands into the pockets of his dress pants.
“It doesn’t feel right on that hand, does it? Because it doesn’t belong there.”
Red blotches grow across the skin of his neck, while his movements become agitated at my directness.
Satisfied that my observation was correct, I add further, “Also, I watched you take it off and switch its position twenty minutes ago.” Dumbass. I raise my finger in the air to make my point and wag it at him. “Be careful not to lose that, or your wife will start asking questions.”
Chase flashes his teeth as if he were about to say something, but I stop him in his tracks.
And partly because I can’t help myself, I go on to say, “Let me take a guess.” I feign overthinking, looking up to the left, then tap my fingers against the bar.
“You have an apartment in the city for the nights you’re working late, but it’s really a fuck pad to cover your illicit affairs while your wife is sitting in an obnoxiously oversized house in the suburbs.
” I stop for a beat. “With one child?” I wait for him to give me an answer, but he doesn’t.
I guess again. “Two children?” He remains stoic while I take another guess. “Three kids?”
“Are you a witch or something?” His hand nervously runs through his slicked-back hair.
“Three? Wow. You have been busy.”
He spits venom my way. “Fuck you.”
“You wish.” Swiveling round on my ass to face the bar again, I deliver a parting farewell with a finger wave over my shoulder, dismissing him. “Have a great night, Chase. And please do your wife a favor and divorce her already. She deserves better.”
I hear him muttering under his breath, which sounds a lot like Fucking frigid bitch , as he storms off, and I laugh to myself as I signal to the bartender I would like a drink. “Another Manhattan, please.” Smiling, I point to my empty glass.
“I’ll get that.” A one-hundred-dollar bill is slapped down, then slid across the bar by a strong tan hand in the direction of the bartender. “And a Macallan single malt on the rocks, please.”
For a beat, we stare at each other in the mirror before slowly turning to face one another.
As if in slow motion, I’m hit with a wave of energy, like a pure shot of electricity, that awakens something deep in my core, and I hate it.
Because it’s him.
Nathaniel Hart.
San Francisco’s top personal injury attorney.
Billionaire playboy.
And the son of the man I want to destroy.