Chapter 1
The rain in Duluth didn’t fall; it hunted.
It was a predatory, freezing slush that came off Lake Superior sideways, seeking out every gap in your armor, every weakness in your stitching, until it found warm skin to bite.
And right now, huddled under the awning of the Kincaid Tower with three Louis Vuitton steamer trunks and a broken umbrella, I felt like the easiest prey in Minnesota.
My phone buzzed in my clutch. I didn't need to look at it to know what the notification said. It was undoubtedly another Transaction Declined alert from Amex, or a text from the sorority house mother reminding me that my key fob had been deactivated as of noon today.
"I hate you," I whispered, the words tearing out of my throat, hot and jagged. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you."
I wasn't sure if I was talking to the sky, the freezing rain, or my father. Probably all three. They were effectively the same entity in my life: cold, distant, and currently raining shit on my parade.
A gust of wind, smelling of iron ore and ice, nearly knocked me over in my Louboutins.
My ankles screamed in protest. These heels were designed for gallery openings and brunch at the country club, not for being a refugee in a monsoon.
I looked down at my dress—a vintage silk slip dress in champagne gold that had cost more than most people’s cars.
It was currently plastered to my body, translucent and ruined, clinging to my shivering skin like a second, freezing layer of dermis.
I looked like a drowned rat. A very expensive, very pathetic drowned rat.
I shoved my wet hair out of my eyes and glared at the revolving glass doors of the tower.
This was the contingency plan. The "Break Glass in Case of Emergency" option.
When my father, Richard Sterling—General Manager of the North Haven Wolves and all-around emotional terrorist—had cut my cards and announced I was "cut off until I learned the value of a dollar," he probably hadn't expected me to remember the corporate condo the team kept in the city.
He used it for visiting scouts, or for when he was in the doghouse with his fourth wife. As far as I knew, it had been empty for months.
"Okay, Georgia," I muttered, my teeth chattering so hard I bit my tongue. "Pull it together. You are a Sterling. You do not cry on the sidewalk."
I gripped the handle of the largest trunk. It weighed a ton, mostly because I had prioritized my acrylics, my brushes, and three heavy canvases over practical things like, say, a winter coat. Art supplies were heavy. Survival was heavy.
I dragged the trunk toward the entrance. The wheels rattled aggressively against the wet pavement. I looked like a fleeing heiress in a bad soap opera.
The concierge desk was empty. Thank God.
I didn't have the energy to charm or bribe a doorman.
I breezed past the security station, radiating an aura of I belong here, don't you dare question me, which was the only useful skill my mother had ever taught me before she ran off to Pilates and never came back.
The elevator was mirrored. I made the mistake of looking at myself.
Mascara ran in black rivulets down my pale cheeks. My platinum blonde hair, usually blown out to perfection, was matted against my skull. My lips were a alarming shade of blue. I looked like the ghost of a prom queen who’d been pushed into a lake.
I pressed the button for the Penthouse.
Please let the code be the same. Please, God, let the code be the same.
My father was a creature of habit. He used the same four-digit code for everything: the year he was drafted into the NHL. The year his life peaked. 1-9-8-8.
The elevator dinged, the sound echoing in the silence of the top floor. The doors slid open to a private foyer. It was dark, silent, and smelled faintly of… sandalwood?
I frowned. My father smelled like cigars and disappointment. This smell was richer. Darker. Like expensive scotch and something sharp, like the chemical tang of an ice rink.
I dragged the first trunk out of the elevator, then the second, then the third, propping the door open with my hip.
I was panting by the time all my worldly possessions were piled on the marble floor of the foyer.
My arms burned. My chest felt tight, that familiar panic clawing at my throat—the feeling that the floor was about to drop out, that I was a fraud, that at any moment someone would realize Georgia Sterling was just a hollow shell painted in pretty colors.
I approached the keypad on the main door. My hand shook uncontrollably, water dripping from my fingertips onto the brushed steel.
1-9-8-8.
The light blinked red.
My heart stopped.
"No," I whispered. "No, no, no."
I tried again, stabbing the buttons harder. 1-9-8-8.
Blink. Red.
"You have got to be kidding me!" I yelled, kicking the solid oak door. Pain shot up my toe, but the anger felt better than the fear. I needed the anger. The anger was fuel. The fear was just a paralyzed weight in my gut.
I leaned my forehead against the cold wood, closing my eyes.
I had nowhere to go. My friends were fair-weather satellites who orbited the Sterling money; the moment the credit cards declined at the bar last night, the orbit had decayed.
I couldn't call Lola—she lived in a dorm room the size of a shoebox and I wasn't going to sleep on a floor like a… like a normal person.
I was Georgia Sterling. I didn't sleep on floors. I slept on 800-thread-count sheets and pretended I didn't have nightmares.
I reached into my wet hair and pulled out a bobby pin.
My father thought my "Art Curation" major was a joke.
He thought I spent my days looking at pretty pictures.
He didn't know about the sculpture classes where I welded steel, or the studio maintenance labs where I learned how to fix antique locking mechanisms. He didn't know anything about me, really.
I stripped the rubber tip off the bobby pin with my teeth and jammed it into the keyhole below the electronic pad. It was a high-end lock, but high-end locks were often arrogant. They relied on complex electronics and ignored the basic mechanics.
I twisted. I felt the pins inside scratching.
Click.
The sound was louder than thunder in the quiet hallway.
I turned the handle. The door swung open.
I stumbled inside, dragging the first trunk with me, kicking the door shut against the draft. I didn't bother with the lights. I just needed to be inside. I needed to not be cold.
"I hate you, Daddy!" I screamed into the darkness of the apartment. My voice cracked, raw and ugly. "I hate you for doing this! I hate you for making me beg! I hope your team loses every single game! I hope you choke on your championship ring!"
I dropped my clutch and kicked off my heels, sending them skittering across the floor.
"Are you done screaming?" a voice asked. "Or do I need to call security to drag you out by your hair?"
The voice didn't come from the hallway. It came from the living room.
It was a voice so deep, so devoid of warmth, that it instantly lowered the temperature in the room by ten degrees. It wasn't a shout. It was a low, vibrating rumble that I felt in the soles of my freezing feet.
I froze.
Oh God. He sold the place. He sold it and I just broke into a stranger's house.
My hand scrambled for the light switch on the wall. I found it and slapped it up.
The room flooded with harsh, clinical white light.
I blinked, blinding spots dancing in my vision. As the room came into focus, the first thing I noticed was that this was definitely not my father's decor. My father liked mahogany, heavy drapes, and hunting trophies.
This room was a sterile temple of chrome, black leather, and glass. It looked less like a home and more like an operating theater or a villain’s lair in a sci-fi movie. It was pristine. Not a speck of dust. Not a pillow out of place.
And sitting in the center of it, in a black leather Eames chair that faced the panoramic window overlooking the city lights, was a monster.
He slowly rotated the chair to face me.
The air left my lungs in a rush.
It was Toby Kincaid.
I knew him, of course. Everyone at North Haven University knew him. Everyone in the state of Minnesota knew him. He was the "Ice King." The Captain of the Wolves. The heir to the Kincaid shipping fortune—a pile of money so large it made my father's wealth look like pocket change.
He was shirtless.
That was the second thing that hit me, harder than the wind outside.
He was wearing nothing but grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, clinging to thick thighs that were pure, explosive muscle.
His chest was a landscape of violence. Fresh, blooming bruises in shades of violet and yellow mottled his ribs—souvenirs from tonight’s game against Michigan.
He had an ice pack strapped to his left shoulder and a tumbler of dark amber liquid in his hand.
He didn't stand up. He didn't cover himself. He just sat there, legs spread in a display of casual, terrifying dominance, watching me.
His hair was jet black, cut short and severe, wet from a post-game shower. But it was his eyes that pinned me to the wall. They were the color of the lake during a storm—a pale, piercing gray-blue that stripped you bare. There was no heat in them. No surprise. Just a cold, calculating assessment.
He had a scar that cut through his left eyebrow, giving him a permanent look of dangerous skepticism.
"Toby Kincaid," I breathed, the name slipping out before I could stop it.
He took a slow sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving my shivering form. "You know my name. That’s a start. Now, do you want to explain why you’re dripping lake water onto my Italian porcelain, or should I just call the cops and have you arrested for breaking and entering?"
I swallowed hard. My throat felt like sandpaper. I was standing in a see-through dress in front of the most intimidating man on campus, and I had absolutely no leverage.