Chapter 1 : All That Glitters

Ava

I'm weaving through this sprawling mansion, and I swear it's a maze designed to keep people lost. My bladder is about to stage a mutiny, and I can't find a bathroom to save my life. Emma got me this gig as a favor, and I'm going to ruin it by pissing myself in the middle of a hallway. My usual bartending job is a dive compared to this place, and not just because I have made double what I would typically make in tips.

The hallway is bordering on opulent, with chandeliers hanging from above and navy wallpaper that just screams money. Every door I have passed in my search for a toilet has had a gold handle—and I think they're actual gold. I wince, doing a little shuffle as I pry open the next door and find another bedroom, my bladder’s insistence interrupting my admiration again.

I spot the tub through the open door and chew my lower lip for a moment of contemplation. My bladder threatens me one more time, and I know there's no chance of me making it to the actual bathroom.

Borrowing someone's en suite will have to do, even if it feels invasive.

"Fine, fine!" I grumble and scurry for the bathroom door. Once I've relieved myself, I take a minute to wash my hands with the fruity, expensive-looking soap and eye myself in the mirror. The dress I borrowed from Emma makes me look like I fit in here. It's like I've transformed into someone who belongs in this fancy crowd.

My blonde hair falls in waves over my shoulders, and my green eyes usually look plain—but not in the emerald dress. At 5'9", I'm tall enough to stand out, and this dress showcases my curves in a way that I never thought possible.

The catering company I'm working with was adamant about us all wearing green, which I'm thankful was apparently my color. Emma had nearly squealed with joy when I came out and did the cursory spin for her to help me spot any potential hiccups with my outfit.

It was good for my ego to know there weren't any—I'd never looked so good.

As I adjust my hair, arranging it in soft waves that frame my face, I catch a glimpse of the diamond earrings glinting in my ears. They're a far cry from my usual small, simple studs. Emma had insisted that I wear them, saying they'd complete the ensemble.

"Not bad, Ava," I whisper to my reflection, tilting my head a bit to make sure my eyeliner hadn't smeared. The dim, flattering lighting of the bathroom casts a soft glow on my features, enhancing the smoky eyeshadow and bringing out the depth of my eyes.

My reflection seems like a stranger—a sophisticated version of myself I'm not used to seeing. For a moment, I forget about the bathroom mishap and the grandeur of the party. It's just me, standing in this lavish room, caught between the familiar comfort of who I am and the allure of who I could be.

I breathe through that thought heavily. I'd never been jealous of Emma, exactly, but … I did wish I had some of the luxuries she'd grown up with. Was that selfish of me? Materialistic? I grimace as I flick the lights out and pull the door open, glancing back once more as I step out.

Colliding with another warm body, I stumble. Strong hands grip my hips to steady me, and I find myself craning my head back to apologize.

The dim lighting from the window doesn't hide the fact that he's tall, dark-haired, and built like a freaking statue—but before I can stutter out an 'I'm so sorry', he's leaning down, his voice smooth as silk.

"I've been looking for you."

My heart does a somersault in my chest as he pulls me close, and there's no time to protest before his lips crash onto mine. It's like a scene from a movie—and my brain's struggling to catch up with the reality of the situation. His kiss is intoxicating, and a spark ignites despite my shock. My hands find his chest, fingers slipping against the suit as I try to muster the willpower to push him away, only to find myself gripping the fabric instead.

We finally break apart, and I'm left breathless, my eyes wide as I gaze up at him. He takes a step back, a flicker of confusion in his eyes.

"You're not Sophia," he says, disappointment lacing his words.

It snaps me out of whatever romantic notions were trying to whisk me away—this man was a stranger. Obviously, he was looking for someone else. The thought shouldn't sting because I don't know him, but that doesn't stop the needling sensation in my chest.

My cheeks flush with embarrassment, and I fumble over my words. "No, I'm Ava. I was just ... I needed the bathroom..."

He leans back enough that I can stumble around him, trailing off in an intelligible mumble. The stranger's eyes chase me around to the bedroom door until I finally manage to grasp the knob and fling myself back into the hallway.

I can still feel his gaze on me as I bolt down the hall, only the teetering of my heels keeping me from running and my heart pounding like a drum.

What just happened? I press my hand to my chest as I power walk down the hallway, trying to ignore the millions of thoughts racing through my mind.

I steal a quick glance back and spot him standing in the corridor, watching me go. He looks even more appealing in the light, and my heart does a crazy flip again.

Focus, Ava, focus.

I can't afford to get distracted, especially by a guy who's so wildly out of my league. Everyone at this party is filthy rich—and I am absolutely positive the man is no exception. I turn the corner back out to the foyer and let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, pressing a hand to my chest and leaning against the wall.

My heart's still hammering away, and my mind is a jumble of confusion. Who was that guy? And why on earth did he kiss me like that? Well, no, that's not exactly fair. He thought he was kissing Sophia like that, the lucky bitch.

It's like something straight out of a rom-com, and isn't that just my luck? I tap the back of my head against the wall with a soft groan and then push up, rolling my shoulders back. His dark, furrowed brow flashes across my mind's eye as I hurry back toward my station and nearly trip again.

My heart falls straight down into my stomach as I finally place him—

That realization hits me like a ton of bricks, sending shockwaves through me.

The man who kissed me was Emma's dad.

This can't be happening. My mind races, frantically trying to process the new information and what it means. The clinking of glasses and the hum of conversation surrounds me, but my mind is a whirlwind of questions and uncertainties. How could I not have recognized him earlier? My mortification only grows and—should I tell Emma? Would he ever try to address it with me?

God, I hope not. I swallow hard, steeling myself as I approach my station, praying he didn't follow me back to the party.

I force myself to focus on the task at hand, hoping that the bustle of the party will help drown out the tumultuous thoughts in my head. Mixing drinks has always been a comforting routine for me, a way to lose myself in the rhythmic dance of pouring and shaking. Tonight, it's more than just a distraction; it's a lifeline.

After the job finally ends, I head home. The weight of what happened presses against me, but I try not to overthink it. It was an accident, after all—just a very hot one.

Emma's been my rock since we became roommates. She never charges me a dime for living here, and her generosity has been a lifesaver, especially during my last semester at NYU. It makes me feel dirty to keep this from her, but what am I supposed to say? 'Hey, Emma, I got the sense kissed out of me by your dad,' just doesn't seem like a good conversation to have.

Once I'm back at our apartment, I can't hold it in any longer. She's sitting on the couch watching her latest obsession, and all the butterflies I'd managed to ignore come flooding back at the prospect of getting to gush about it.

It feels wrong to brag about kissing her dad, but at the same time, I need to tell someone. The fact that Emma is basically my only friend does not escape me as I drop down onto the couch beside her and turn, giving her a grin.

"Emma," I start, my voice a little breathless, "I need to tell you something crazy that happened tonight."

She raises an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "Spill the tea, Ava."

I recount the unexpected encounter in that dark bedroom, leaving out the part about her dad.

"I don't even know who he is, but he kissed me, and it was like something out of one of your romance books."

Emma's jaw drops. "What? Are you serious? Did he say anything?" She scrambles around to face me with wide eyes, letting out a little giggle when I blow out a breath.

"He thought I was someone else named Sophia," I admit, my cheeks heating at the reminder. "And then he realized I wasn't her, so I tucked my tail and ran."

Emma looks thoughtful. "Well, did you at least see what he looked like? Maybe you could find out who he is."

I pause for a moment, thinking about whether I should share more.

The thought nearly sends me into a panicked spiral, so I decide not to. "Yeah, I got a good look at him when he was in the hallway. If I saw him again, I'd definitely recognize him."

She grins. "Well, if you run into him at some point, you'll have to let me know."

"Duh," I scoff with a laugh, and she turns back to her show. I know I can't actually tell her who he is. It's just too … messy. What would she think? Would she be angry? Hurt? I try to shake those thoughts away as she asks about the rest of my night, but the thoughts circle for the rest of the night.

Over the next couple of days, I can't shake the memory of that kiss. It's like an ember, smoldering in the back of my mind—burning up all my other thoughts. I try to focus on my classes and my regular job at the bar, but there's a constant undercurrent of distraction.

I start to feel crazy by day two of daydreaming about my best friend's dad.

Amid the hustle of the bar, I'm slinging drinks and shooting the breeze with customers—all but one, who has been lingering at the end of my bar all night. He's sloppy drunk, head dipped to one side as he slurs out biting words for refusing to serve him anymore, and I try to keep my professionalism.

I need this job.

Even if every word out of his mouth feels like a dart aimed right at my patience.

"Can't handle a little banter, sweetheart?" he grins.

I roll my eyes, not about to let him rattle me any more than he already has. "Oh, I can handle it just fine. But I'm guessing you're compensating for something."

I shouldn't bite back at him, but my shift is nearly over, and I'm starting to get nervous. He's going to follow me out to my car if I don't do something to run him off.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard by my response, though not in the way I had hoped. "Feisty. I like that."

I grit my teeth and focus on wiping out the glass in my hand and turning around to put it back on the rack, letting out a breath. I'm about to fire back another comeback when a voice from behind me interrupts.

"Hey, lay off her, will you?" I don't smile when I spot the shaggy-haired blond glaring down the bar at the drunkard, but I want to.

My heart skips a beat as I turn to face him. He's beautiful—like a knight in shining armor, stepping into a scene straight out of a movie. The annoying guy rolls his eyes and begrudgingly backs off, muttering something under his breath as he retreats.

Of course, he does, now that another man has decided to pick up the fight on my behalf. It chafes, but I try to just be grateful the man is stumbling off his stool and making his way across the bar toward the door.

Noah, a friend from school, shoots me a wink, and I can't help but grin in response. His lopsided smile makes my pulse race, and for a moment, it's as if the whole world narrows down to just us.

"Thanks for that," I say earnestly, hoping he can feel how much I mean it.

I'm used to dealing with assholes all night, but it's always nice to not need to.

"No problem," he replies, his gaze holding mine for a second longer than necessary.

Then he turns back to his table, grinning at his friends like he hadn't just made my whole evening.

As the night winds down and people start filing out, I lock up the bar and head toward my car, my mind still replaying the evening's events. My mishap with the drunkard and Noah had taken my mind off Emma's dad for a few hours, but now that I was heading home, my mind circles back.

I shouldn't keep letting the memory of his lips on mine sweep me away, but it's hard when he was the closest thing to action I'd gotten in months. Briefly, I entertain the thought of finding someone else to relieve some of the tension—it wouldn't be too hard to nab someone at one of the frat parties I'm always refusing to go to. If I played my cards right, I wouldn't even have to deal with a clinger.

Just as I'm about to get into my car, my phone rings. I glance at the caller ID, recognizing the area code but not the number—and quickly ignore it. Random spam calls were rampant right now, and I wasn't in the mood to deal with it.

But when I decline it, not even five minutes pass before the same number calls again, and a feeling of unease starts to creep in. Maybe it's important after all. I answer the call, and an automated voice begins to speak.

"This is a call from the Chicago Corrections Department from ... Joseph Williams."

My heart leaps into my throat.

"Dad, what happened?"