CHAPTER ONE #2
I smoothed my black uniform and lifted my head, my muscles remembering the practiced grace required for this job. I could do this. I'd been surviving on scraps and determination for three years—I could serve champagne to my former one-night stand without completely losing my shit.
It wasn’t long before men and women in expensive clothing filtered into the room, clustering around high-top tables, their conversations a low hum of business deals and market speculation.
Nobody even looked our way. We were truly invisible.
I took the opportunity to scan faces, desperate to see Nash.
I recognized some faces from newspapers and financial websites—the kind of people who shaped the city's skyline with a signature on a check.
I wove between the groups, offering champagne and a smile that Bitchy Brenda would be proud of.
My phone buzzed in my pocket—probably a response from Preston letting me know he had ten valid excuses why he couldn’t be a father again today.
When I’d emptied my tray of champagne flutes, I tucked the tray under my arm and snuck a peek at my phone.
PRESTON: Not happening today. You’ll figure it out.
The simmering rage returned, tightening all the muscles in my body. I stalked toward the wet bar at the edge of the room and reloaded my tray of flutes. With a deep breath, I began circulating the room again.
"Excuse me, darling."
I turned toward the voice, my practiced smile already in place, and found myself face-to-face with a man whose gut strained his expensive shirt. His eyes lingered on my chest longer than appropriate, making my skin crawl.
"Mr. Sampson," I read from his name tag. "Champagne?"
"Don't mind if I do." He took a glass but didn't step back, instead moving closer. "Wow. Look at you.”
I blinked.
“You know, you're far too pretty to be serving drinks. What's your name, sweetheart?"
Sweetheart. I wanted to dump the entire tray over his balding head.
"Clara," I managed, taking a step back. "Please excuse me, I need to—"
"Clara." He rolled my name around his mouth like he was tasting it. "Pretty name for a pretty girl. Tell me, Clara, what are you doing after this little party?"
"Working," I said firmly, trying to edge away. But he followed, his hand reaching out to brush my arm.
"Come now, don't be shy. A girl like you, working a job like this...hey, you know what I love about girls like you? More to hold onto.” His smile turned predatory. “I bet you could use some extra income. I've got a proposition for you."
My stomach turned. "I'm not interested."
"You haven't even heard what I'm offering." His grip tightened around my arm like a vice. "I have a penthouse not far from here. Very private. Very comfortable. And I can be very generous to girls who know how to...appreciate that comfort."
The champagne tray wobbled in my hands as panic shot through me. This wasn't the first time a man had made me this kind of offer, but usually I could deflect and move away. Sampson's grip was too tight, his smile too predatory.
"Let me go," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. I jerked my arm away from him, which caused one of the flutes to tip to the floor. The glass shattered and everything inside me stiffened.
"Don't be difficult, sweetheart. We both know what this is about." His voice dropped to a whisper as he leaned closer. "I saw you checking your phone. Money troubles? I can solve those for you. One night, and you won't have to worry about—"
"She said let her go."
A deep voice cut through Sampson's proposition like a blade. Gritty, authoritative, familiar enough to make every nerve in my body light up like a live wire.
Nash Nightingale stepped into view, his ice-blue gaze locked on Sampson's hand wrapped around my arm. Even in my peripheral vision, I could see the dangerous stillness in his posture, the way his jaw had gone tight with barely controlled anger.
"Nash, come on." Sampson finally released my arm. "I was just—"
"Harassing my staff during my company's new headquarters reception." The steadiness in Nash’s voice was controlled. Lethal, almost. Goosebumps erupted on my forearms and I couldn’t look away from his commanding presence. "Which makes you both a guest in my building and a liability to my event."
I stood frozen between them, the champagne tray trembling in my hands as Nash's gaze flicked to me for just a moment. Recognition flashed in his eyes—subtle but unmistakable.
He remembered me.
"There's been a misunderstanding," Sampson tried again.
"No misunderstanding." Nash stepped closer, and even I could feel the intimidation radiating from his presence. "Security will escort you out. Right now."
Sampson's face flushed red, but he wasn't stupid enough to argue with Nash Nightingale in his own building. He stormed away toward the elevators.
I finally released the breath I'd been holding, gripping the tray even tighter.
"Thank you," I whispered, not quite meeting Nash's eyes.
"Are you all right?"
The gentleness in his voice almost undid me. This was the Nash I remembered—the one who'd made me feel like the most important woman in the world for one perfect night. The man I’d connected with so hard I still thought about him four years later, nearly crushed under the weight of the what-ifs.
"I'm fine." I forced myself to look up at him, and the full impact of his presence hit me like a truck. Four years had only made him more devastating. Broader shoulders, sharper jaw, a gaze that rooted me in my spot.
"Clara."
The way he said my name made my knees weak. He’d called me Scarlett the night we met, because I’d told him that was my name. The truth had come tumbling out the morning after, and he realized I’d lied to him about almost everything—not just my name, but my profession, my life.
The only thing that hadn’t been fake was the connection between us. The way we’d come together like two soul mates, finding each other after lifetimes.
"Mr. Nightingale." I kept my voice professional, even as my heart hammered against my ribs.
His gaze swept over me, taking in the catering uniform, the trembling hands, the obvious desperation that clung to me like cheap perfume. I watched his expression shift from concern to something harder to read.
"I should get back to work," I said quickly, stepping away before I could do something stupid. Like apologize for the hundredth time for lying to him that night. Or ask if he ever thought about me. Or tell him that seeing him again was both the best and worst thing that could happen to me today.
But as I turned to leave, Bitchy Brenda appeared at my elbow, her face twisted with fury.
"What the hell was that about?" she hissed, grabbing my arm roughly, almost causing me to lose another glass. "I told you to be charming, not to cause a scene with the clients."
"He was harassing me," I protested. "Mr. Nightingale intervened to—"
"I don't care if he was reciting poetry. You embarrassed a client, which means you embarrassed me, which means you're done." Brenda's voice rose with each word. "Clean up your station and get out."
"Brenda, please. I need this job. I—"
"Should have thought about that before you made a spectacle of yourself." She turned to Nash, who had been in the process of walking away but was now watching our exchange with increasing intensity. "Mr. Nightingale, I apologize for my employee's unprofessional behavior. This won't happen again."
Nash's gaze never left my face. "Actually, I think there's been a misunderstanding."
Hope flickered in my chest.
Nash continued, his voice deadly even. "You think what just happened was your employee's fault, when in reality, one of my guests was sexually harassing a member of your staff. And your response is to fire her for defending herself?"
Brenda's face went white. "I...I didn't realize..."
"Clara did nothing wrong. Sampson, on the other hand, will never set foot in any of my properties again." Nash's tone left no room for argument. "I suggest you reconsider your employment decisions carefully."
As Nash spoke, I could see my phone lighting up in my apron pocket. Likely another disappointing response from Preston.
“I completely understand, Mr. Nightingale,” Brenda sputtered. To her credit, she looked genuinely regretful. But only for a moment. Once Nash rejoined his party, leaving the two of us behind, her face hardened.
“Don’t ever embarrass me like that in front of a client again,” she hissed.
“I—I didn’t,” I began, just as my phone vibrated again in my apron pocket. An exasperated sigh escaped me. I couldn’t keep ignoring this. I reached into the pocket and pulled out my phone, reviewing it right in front of Brenda. Fuck it.
“No phones during your shift,” she hissed.
Another missed call from Little Sprouts, with a voicemail. The preview of the voicemail said that Mia had vomited again.
“My daughter is having an emergency at her daycare,” I informed Brenda coolly, bringing a little bit of that Nash Nightingale energy to the interaction. Not that I trusted myself to deliver my words with the same lethal calm as him. “I need to go pick her up. There’s no one else.”
Brenda deflated. “Are you serious?”
“I wish it was a joke, but it’s not.”
Brenda’s nostrils flared. “If you leave now, you’re fired. That’s the bottom line. I don’t care what the reason is.”
The choice between keeping this job and taking care of my daughter wasn't really a choice at all.
I set the champagne tray on the nearest table and walked away.