Chapter 1

Chloe's POV

Two years since I'd last set foot in this city, since I'd fled to Paris with nothing but a suitcase and a broken heart, desperate to escape a relationship that had been all give and no take, all longing and no answer, all love with nowhere to land.

Six hours since I'd touched down at JFK from Paris.

One hour since I'd gotten the tip that my fiancé was here cheating on me.

Now, I was going to get the proof I needed that my fiancé was a cheating bastard.

The revolving glass door of the Apex Club felt heavier than I remembered, or maybe it was just the membership card burning a hole in my coat pocket—the one with Arthur Sterling embossed in silver lettering, my name listed beneath as an authorized user.

I thought I'd never come back here, thought I'd never need this card again. Funny how things turned out.

"Good evening," the receptionist said, her smile polite but distant, the kind that said she could smell new money from a mile away.

I handed her the card without a word. For a second nothing happened, and my heart seized—had he canceled it?

The screen flashed green.

Her eyebrows lifted, and suddenly that polite disdain evaporated into deference. I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.

"Ms. Vance. Welcome to the Apex Club. The Obsidian Penthouse is accessible via the private elevator on your left—"

"Silver Level," I cut in. "Private Room 7."

She blinked, clearly thrown. For a second she just stared at me, like she couldn't quite reconcile the card in her hand with my request. But professionalism won out.

"Of course. The express elevator on your right."

I took the card back, slipping it into my purse as it burned. Every time I touched it, I could smell cedar and something darker, something that used to make me feel safe before it made me feel owned.

Focus. You have a job to do.

The Silver Level was exactly what I expected—crystal chandeliers, white leather booths, tech bros in Brunello Cucinelli cashmere, the whole circus of new money trying to buy legitimacy. I moved through the crowd, scanning the brass numbers on each door. Room 3. Room 5. Room 7.

The door was slightly ajar, and I could hear Julian's voice inside, that lazy drawl he used when he thought no one who mattered was listening.

"Come on, babe. Marriage is just a piece of paper. Doesn't mean we can't have fun."

A woman's laugh. Olivia Blake. Right on schedule.

"You're terrible, Julian. What about your fiancée?"

"What about her? It's just business. My dad needs the Vance textile contracts, and her uncle needs our money. She knows the deal."

I pulled out my phone and started recording, angling the camera through the gap in the door. They were kissing, completely lost in each other, giving me a perfect view of both their faces. Olivia wore that crimson dress—the one I'd designed myself, with the asymmetric neckline and daring cut.

Right now, watching her perched on his lap with fingers tangled in his hair and his hand on her thigh while she kissed his neck, that dress looked less like couture and more like a weapon aimed straight at Julian's throat.

Perfect.

I took my time, getting clear shots of their faces, of his hands on her body, of the champagne bottle on the table. Evidence. Irrefutable.

When I had enough, I straightened my shoulders and pushed the door open fully. "Well," I said brightly. "Isn't this cozy?"

Julian jerked like he'd been electrocuted, nearly dumping Olivia onto the floor. She scrambled to fix her dress, but Julian just stared at me with his mouth open, his face turning red.

"Chloe—"

"Don't." I held up one hand, still smiling. "I have everything I need right here. High-definition video. Your hands on her. Her mouth on you. The whole sordid little scene."

"You bitch—"

"Careful," I said softly. "You're going to want to think very carefully about what you say next. Because I have two options for you. Option one: You call your father right now and tell him this engagement is off. You tell him it's mutual, that we realized we weren't compatible. You take the blame publicly, and I keep this video to myself."

His eyes narrowed. "And option two?"

"Option two is I send this to Page Six, TMZ, and every outlet that matters, and by tomorrow morning your face is on every headline in the city." I glanced at Olivia. "No offense."

"None taken," she murmured, edging toward the door.

Julian stood up slowly, and for the first time I saw something dangerous flicker across his face. "You think you can threaten me? You think you have any power here?" He took a step closer. "You're nothing, Chloe. A charity case my family was stupid enough to consider. Your uncle came crawling to us, remember? Begging for our money to save his pathetic little fabric company."

"Simple choice," I said evenly. "You end this engagement, or I make sure you become the biggest joke in this city." I smiled. "Your call, Julian."

He stared at me for a long moment, calculation flickering in his eyes. Then he pulled out his phone. "Fine. I'll call my father. We'll say it was mutual."

"But Chloe?" He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the whiskey on his breath, the cheap cologne he wore that made my stomach turn. "You really think you can just walk away?"

Something cold slithered down my spine. "What are you talking about?"

Julian smiled, and it wasn't a nice smile. "You'll see."

The door opened behind me. I turned, expecting Olivia.

But it wasn't Olivia.

It was two men in dark suits, security earpieces visible, faces professionally blank. And they were looking at me like I was the problem.

My heart started hammering. This wasn't right.

Julian was still smiling, straightening his collar like he hadn't just been caught with his hand up another woman's dress. "See, babe, here's the thing. My security's right outside. One word from me, and they'll make sure you never leave this building with that video."

I looked at the security guards, then back at Julian, and felt a flicker of real fear. I'd planned the recording, the confrontation, the leverage—everything except how to get out of this room.