Chapter 2

It's a stupid story. The kind that sounds made up.

The brunette on Patrick's arm? Her name's Chiara Conti. She was my roommate in college.

And four years ago, she stole my face.

Not literally. She just took every photo off my social media — the candid ones, the blurry ones, the ones where my hair fell over my eyes just right — and used them to bait a rich boy online.

A very rich boy.

She bragged about him every night in our dorm. Said he was loaded. Said he was obsessed.

"He sent me money again. Like, ten grand. I haven't even spent the last one. So embarrassing."

She'd stretch out on her bed, scrolling. Eyes flicking up to make sure I was listening.

"Don't be jealous, Cara. I know you're on financial aid. But some of us just get lucky, you know?"

After that, everything she owned got upgraded. Designer bags. Red bottoms. Dinners that cost what I made in two weeks.

Her mystery boyfriend had bad insomnia, she said. Real clingy. Needed her on the phone every night till dawn.

So every night she'd lock herself in the bathroom, voice gone soft and breathy, giggling for hours.

I slept four hours a night, if I was lucky.

I was on three jobs. My parents had split when I was nine. Both remarried. Both forgot to remember me. I paid my own tuition. I bought my own instant noodles.

One morning I tried to sneak out for my 5 a.m. shift, careful not to wake anyone.

Chiara sat up in bed and threw a pillow at my back.

"You're so dramatic, Cara. Some of us are trying to sleep. If you're that broke, just drop out and find a sugar daddy. God knows it'd be less annoying than this."

I didn't answer. I had a bus to catch.

The job that morning was at a coffee shop two miles from campus.

A man came in. Ordered the most expensive thing on the menu. Sat in the corner and watched me.

He was — okay, I'll just say it. He was beautiful. Black coat, amber eyes, jawline like a weapon. Half the girls in the shop were filming him on their phones.

When I brought him his coffee, he slid a hundred-dollar tip across the table and grinned, slow and lazy.

"Long shift, baby?"

I blinked.

"Why are you up this early pulling shifts? I send you plenty of money. You need more? Just say the word."

I stared at him. "I'm sorry — what?"

His smile flickered. He pulled out his phone, opened his camera roll, and turned the screen toward me.

It was full of pictures of me. Hundreds of them.

"You've got that little mole right under your ear, baby. That's you. Don't act like you don't know me. You call me daddy every night."

I almost dropped the tray.

"That's my face. But sir — I have never seen you before in my life."

His smile died.

We sat down. We pieced it together.

Within twenty minutes we'd figured out exactly what Chiara had done.

He looked like he was going to put his fist through the wall. Then he looked at me, really looked, and the anger melted into something else. Something sharper. Hungrier.

He held out his hand.

"Patrick Pelletier. And whoever the hell you actually are — I want to know you."

I should've walked away. I knew the last name. Everyone in this city knew the last name.

The Pelletiers don't run a company. They run the city. Patrick was the old Don's only son, and the only son meant heir. Heir meant blood. Blood meant rules — alliance marriages, no outsiders, no civilians.

But he leaned across the table and lowered his voice, and his eyes were doing that thing.

"Stick with me, sweetheart. Life gets a hell of a lot easier."

God help me — I let it.

I was so tired. I was so tired of being tired.

I said yes.