Anything For You

Chapter 1

The fundraiser was the kind of event Elizabeth Moretti tolerated rather than enjoyed.

The kind where the air smelled like expensive perfume, and the clink of crystal glasses competed with the low hum of legal small talk.

She stood near the bar, one hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey she hadn’t yet touched, the other tucked into the pocket of her tailored blazer.

She scanned the room, her gaze skipping over the usual suspects—partners from her firm, a few judges she’d argued before, the occasional client who liked to pretend they were friends.

Her fingers tightened around the glass. One drink.

That was the rule. Just enough to look like she was participating, not enough to dull the edge she needed to get through the night.

Then she saw Grace.

Grace stood bathed in the warm glow of the chandelier, her laughter cutting through the murmur of the crowd—a sound Elizabeth knew too well.

That slight tilt of her head, the way her fingers curled around the stem of her wine glass, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners.

It was the laugh that meant she wasn’t just being polite.

Elizabeth’s breath hitched, her ribs pressing in like she’d forgotten how to expand them.

She’d told herself she was prepared for this, that running into Grace before the wedding would be good practice.

The lie tasted bitter now. It wasn’t that Elizabeth still had feelings for her ex-wife.

Not at all. But it was hard to see someone you once loved moving on so easily.

She looked good. Of course she did. Her dark hair was swept into an elegant twist, her dress a deep emerald that made her skin glow. She was still beautiful, still effortlessly poised, still everything Elizabeth had once thought she wanted.

And then there was the woman beside her.

Tall, polished, her blonde hair catching the light as she turned to say something to Grace.

Charlotte. The fiancée. Elizabeth had seen photos, of course, but seeing her in person was different.

The sharp angles of Charlotte’s jawline, the effortless drape of her blazer over her shoulders, the way her fingers lingered on Grace’s wrist—each detail hit Elizabeth like a punch to the gut.

Not just because she was beautiful, but because she was there, standing beside Grace like it was the most natural thing in the world, and in two weeks’ time, that would be Grace’s new wife.

Elizabeth exhaled. She wasn’t going to hide. That wasn’t who she was. She crossed the room, her heels clicking against the polished floor, her posture unshakable. Grace turned as she approached, her smile faltering for just a second before she smoothed it back into place.

“Elizabeth,” Grace said, her voice warm but careful. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Neither did I,” Elizabeth replied, her tone light, practiced. She let her gaze flick to Charlotte, just for a second, before meeting Grace’s eyes again. “But I’m glad I ran into you.”

Charlotte extended a hand, her grip firm, her smile polite but not overly friendly. “Charlotte Grant. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Elizabeth shook her hand, her own grip just as steady. “Elizabeth Moretti. Likewise.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched just a little too long, filled with all the things none of them were saying. Grace broke it first.

“How’s the firm?” Grace asked.

“Busy,” she said, and that was true. “But good. We just won the Carter case.”

Grace’s eyebrows lifted. “Impressive. I heard it was a tough one.”

“It was,” Elizabeth said, and for a second, she let herself relax into the familiar rhythm of shop talk. This, she could do. This, she was good at.

Charlotte excused herself to grab a drink, and Grace watched her go before turning back to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth kept her voice low, her tone measured. “I assume she knows who I am.”

Grace didn’t even hesitate. “Of course, she knows we were married.” A beat, just long enough to let the words settle. “Do you think I’d hide something like that?”

The question hung there, light but pointed.

Elizabeth exhaled through her nose, her fingers flexing against the cool glass in her hand.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she let her gaze drift toward the bar, where Charlotte stood waiting for her drink, her posture relaxed, her presence undeniable.

The whiskey glass was slick under Elizabeth’s fingers, the condensation beading against her skin.

She watched Charlotte, the way she leaned against the counter with effortless confidence, the way the bartender’s eyes lingered just a second too long.

Of course, he’s looking at her. Charlotte was the kind of woman who commanded attention without trying—exactly the kind of woman Grace deserved.

Elizabeth turned back to Grace, her ex-wife’s question still hanging between them. Do you think I’d hide something like that?

“No,” she said, her voice steady. “I didn’t think you would.”

Grace studied her, those familiar gray eyes searching for something Elizabeth wasn’t sure she wanted to give. Then, softer, “I am happy, Elizabeth. For the first time in a long time.”

Elizabeth forced a smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I can tell. You look—” She gestured vaguely, taking in Grace’s dress, her glow, the way she carried herself like a woman who had everything she wanted. “You look like you’ve got it all figured out.”

Grace’s expression shifted, just slightly, something like concern flickering across her face. “What about you? Are you making time for yourself? Or are you still buried in case files at midnight?”

Elizabeth’s fingers tightened around the glass. There it was. The unspoken question. The one Grace was too polite to ask outright. Are you dating? Are you over me? Are you even trying?

She should have seen it coming. Of course, Grace would ask. Of course, she would care. That was the problem with Grace—she always cared, even when she didn’t have to.

Elizabeth opened her mouth to deflect, to say something smooth and noncommittal, but the words didn’t come. Instead, what slipped out was raw, unfiltered, and stupid.

“Yes, I’m seeing someone. She’s wonderful.”

The words hung in the air between them. Elizabeth’s pulse spiked, her stomach twisting. What the hell was that? She hadn’t meant to say it. She hadn’t even thought it. But now it was out there, impossible to take back.

Grace’s eyebrows lifted, her surprise genuine.

“You are? That’s—” She hesitated, as if searching for the right word.

“That’s great. Really. I was afraid you wouldn’t put yourself out there again.

Why aren’t you bringing her to the wedding?

You RSVP’d just for yourself. I’m sure of it. I would have noticed if you hadn’t.”

Elizabeth’s throat went dry. She should have stopped there.

She should have nodded, smiled, changed the subject.

But the lie had taken root, and now it was growing, wild and untamed.

“I didn’t want to make it awkward,” she said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.

“Bringing her to the wedding, I mean. I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it. ”

Grace waved a hand, dismissive. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, you should bring her. Charlotte and I would love to meet her.”

Elizabeth’s mind raced.

The whiskey glass was a dead weight in Elizabeth’s hand. She should have set it down. Should have done something—anything—to ground herself. But her fingers had locked around the glass like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

Grace’s smile was warm, genuine. Of course, you should bring her. The words struck with the cold, decisive weight of a judge’s gavel—unquestionable, absolute, sealing her fate with a single pronouncement.

Elizabeth’s pulse hammered in her throat. “It’s your day,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to—”

“Nonsense.” Grace cut her off with a laugh, her hand lifting to squeeze Elizabeth’s arm. “We’re adults. And we’re moving forward with our lives. I’m happy for you. Really.”

The touch burned. Not in a way that hurt, but in a way that mattered. Grace’s fingers were warm through the fabric of Elizabeth’s blazer, a ghost of familiarity. Elizabeth swallowed, her throat dry. “I’ll think about it.”

Grace’s grip tightened just slightly before she let go. “Do more than think. Bring her.” A pause. “I’d like to meet the woman who finally got you to slow down.”

The words landed like a blade between her ribs. Finally. As if Elizabeth had been waiting. As if she’d been broken until now.

Grace excused herself with a final smile, weaving back into the crowd toward Charlotte. Elizabeth watched her go, her chest tight.

The moment Grace was out of earshot, Elizabeth’s control snapped.

What the hell had she just done?

She knocked back her whiskey and set the empty glass down on a passing tray with a sharp clink, her fingers trembling. The room tilted, just slightly, the hum of conversation suddenly too loud, the air too thick. She needed air. She needed space.

She turned on her heel and cut through the crowd, her strides long and purposeful, her expression carefully blank. No one stopped her. No one even looked at her twice.

The terrace was empty, the night air still holding the damp warmth of a May evening, thick with the scent of city rain and distant exhaust. She gripped the railing, her knuckles white, and forced herself to breathe. In. Out. In.

Two weeks.

Two weeks until Grace’s wedding. Two weeks until she was supposed to show up with a girlfriend she didn’t have. A girlfriend she’d invented in a moment of pride and panic, like some kind of reckless idiot.

This wasn’t her. She didn’t lie. She didn’t panic. She planned. She prepared. She didn’t dig herself into holes she couldn’t climb out of.

But she had.

And now she had to fix it.

Her mind raced, scenarios flashing behind her eyes like a bad legal deposition. Hire an escort? No. Too risky. Too vulgar. Ask a friend? She didn’t have friends like that. Not ones who’d agree to this. Not ones who were single or who didn’t already know Grace.

Elizabeth’s fingers dug into the railing, the metal cool and unyielding beneath her grip.

She pressed her palms against her eyes until the pressure sent sparks of light behind her lids, her breath coming too fast, too shallow.

This was insane. She was Elizabeth Moretti—a partner at one of the most prestigious firms in the city, a woman who built her reputation on precision, on never being caught unprepared.

And yet here she was, standing alone on a terrace, sweating through her silk blouse like some desperate amateur who’d just torched her own credibility with a single, reckless sentence.

Her stomach twisted, a slow, sickening coil of dread.

How the hell was she going to make this work without humiliating herself?

Without Grace looking at her with that quiet, knowing pity—the same look she’d worn when Elizabeth had insisted, during the divorce, that she was fine with the split, that she didn’t need anything, that she was completely in control.

Two weeks.

That was all she had.

Two weeks to conjure a solution out of thin air, to turn a lie into something plausible, something that wouldn’t make her look like the pathetic, bitter ex she’d spent two years pretending she wasn’t.