Chapter 1
Eloise POV
I've interviewed three Academy Award winners, two corrupt senators, and a tech mogul who tried to bribe me with a Tesla. None of them made me want to throw my recorder across the room quite like this.
"Ms. Knox, is it?" The voice drips with practiced charm, the kind that's been rehearsed in mirrors and refined by publicists. "I have to say, I'm familiar with your work. You have a certain... reputation."
I don't look up from my phone. "So do cockroaches. Doesn't mean I want to have drinks with them."
The laugh that follows is genuine enough to make me glance up. Big mistake.
He's leaning against the bar like he was sculpted there—all sharp jawline and calculated casual elegance in a white button-down that probably costs more than my rent. Dark hair that looks artfully messy, the kind of mess that takes a team. And those eyes. God, those eyes are the same shade of storm-cloud grey that used to keep me up at night.
Seven years ago.
My chest tightens. I shove the feeling down where it belongs—buried with all the other humiliations of my early twenties.
"That's creative," he says, sliding onto the barstool next to mine uninvited. "Most people just call me an asshole."
"I'm not most people."
"Clearly." He signals the bartender with two fingers. The man practically sprints over. "What are you drinking?"
"Something you're not paying for."
"Whiskey sour," he tells the bartender anyway. "And I'll have the same."
"Did you just order for me?" I finally set my phone down, turning to face him fully. "What is this, 1952? Should I be grateful you didn't order me a sherry and a fainting couch?"
His lips twitch. "Do you want the sherry? Because I'm pretty sure Marcus over there can make anything. He once made me a cocktail that tasted like my childhood summers. It was disturbingly accurate."
"Let me guess—expensive, overrated, and left a bad taste in your mouth?"
"Ouch." He places a hand over his heart like I've wounded him. "And here I was trying to be charming."
"How's that working out for you?"
"Terribly. You're supposed to be giggling by now. Maybe touching my arm. Definitely not verbally eviscerating me."
"Sorry to disappoint."
"You're not, though." He accepts his drink with a nod of thanks, then slides mine toward me. "You're enjoying this."
Damn it. He's right. I am enjoying this, and that pisses me off more than his presumption.
"Fine. I'll drink your overpriced whiskey. But only because I'm petty enough to cost you money."
"A woman of principle. I respect that." He raises his glass. "To petty revenge and expensive bourbon."
"It's whiskey."
"Is there a difference?"
I stare at him. "Did you actually just ask me if there's a difference between bourbon and whiskey?"
"I did. And judging by that look, I've made a terrible mistake."
"All bourbon is whiskey, but not all whiskey is bourbon. Bourbon has to be made in America, contain at least fifty-one percent corn, and be aged in new charred oak barrels. This—" I lift my glass, "—is rye whiskey. Completely different flavor profile."
He's grinning now, full wattage, and it does something unfortunate to my stomach. "You're a whiskey snob."
"I'm a woman who knows what she's drinking."
"Sexy."
"Excuse me?"
"Intelligence. It's sexy." He takes a sip, watching me over the rim of his glass. "Though I'm betting you hear that a lot."
"I hear a lot of things. Doesn't mean they're true."
"What do people usually say about you?"
"That I'm a bitch."
"Are you?"
"Absolutely. It's part of my charm."
He laughs again, and this time it's unguarded, surprised. "God, you're refreshing."
"Like a glass of cold water?"
"Like a slap in the face. In the best way."
"There's a best way to be slapped in the face?"
"There is when you've been surrounded by yes-men and empty compliments for so long you've forgotten what honesty sounds like."
There's something raw in his voice, something real beneath the polished exterior. It catches me off guard, makes me pause mid-sip.
"That sounds lonely," I say before I can stop myself.
His expression shifts—surprise, maybe, or recognition. "It is."
The moment stretches between us, heavier than it should be, and I need to break it before I do something stupid like feel sympathy for him.
"So what do you do?" I ask, pivoting back to safer ground. "Besides crash unsuspecting journalists' evenings?"
"Currently? I'm trying to figure out why the most interesting woman at this party is sitting alone, looking like she'd rather be anywhere else."
"Deflection. Classic celebrity move."
"Detective work. Classic journalist move." He mirrors my posture, leaning one elbow on the bar. "Though you still haven't told me your first name. 'Ms. Knox' feels a bit formal for two people sharing premium whiskey."
"We're not sharing anything. We're drinking in proximity."
"Even better. Nothing says romance like aggressive proximity drinking."
"Who said anything about romance?"
"I did. Just now. Keep up, Knox."
"Still not giving you my first name."
"Why not? Is it embarrassing? Are you a Bertha? A Mildred?" He snaps his fingers. "Gertrude. You're definitely a Gertrude."
"Yes, my parents looked at their newborn daughter and thought, 'This child screams Gertrude.'"
"So what is it then?"
"Why do you care?"
"Because you're the first person I've met in months who isn't trying to get something from me, and I'd like to at least know what to call you when I think about this conversation later."
The honesty in that statement floors me. No smooth pickup line, no calculated charm—just truth, delivered like he's surprised by it himself.
"Eloise," I say finally, against my better judgment.
"Eloise." He repeats it slowly, and the way my name sounds in his voice—low, appreciative, deliberate—sends a shiver down my spine I absolutely refuse to acknowledge. "That's beautiful. Old-fashioned."
"My mother had delusions of grandeur."
"And you? What are your delusions?"
"That people are capable of honesty."
His smile fades slightly. "That's not a delusion. That's a tragedy."
"Speaking from experience?"
"Aren't we all?"
Before I can respond, before I can dig deeper into whatever wound I've just touched, a commotion erupts across the room. Someone's dropped a tray of champagne glasses, and the sound of shattering crystal cuts through the ambient noise like a gunshot.
I flinch. Hard. My hand jerks, and whiskey sloshes over the rim of my glass.
"Hey." His voice is suddenly closer, softer. "You okay?"
"Fine." I set the glass down, willing my hands to stop shaking. "Just startled."
But he's watching me too carefully now, seeing too much. "That was more than startled."
"And that's more than your business."
"Fair." He backs off immediately, and I appreciate that he doesn't push. "For what it's worth, I hate these parties too. The noise, the performance, the constant feeling that everyone's watching."
"Then why come?"
"Because my mother would literally murder me if I didn't." He says it like he's joking, but there's no humor in his eyes. "What about you? You don't seem like the industry party type."
"I'm not. I'm working."
"Ah. So I'm work now?"
"You're a potential source."
"How romantic. And here I thought we were having a moment."
"We're having a conversation. Don't get confused."
"Too late. I'm already deeply confused by you, Eloise Knox." He finishes his drink, signals Marcus for another. "You're contradictory. Sharp but vulnerable. Closed off but engaged. You say you hate these parties, but you're still here. You act like you don't want to talk to me, but you haven't left."
"Maybe I'm just being polite."
"You, polite?" He snorts. "You compared me to a cockroach three minutes after meeting me."
"That was a compliment. Cockroaches are survivors. Resilient. Hard to kill."
"I'm choosing to be flattered."
"You do that."
A woman in a dress that costs more than my car materializes at his elbow, her hand immediately claiming his arm with the possessiveness of ownership. She's stunning in that manufactured way—perfect nose, perfect teeth, perfect everything.
"There you are!" Her voice is sugar-sweet with an edge of steel. "We've been looking everywhere, darling."
*Darling.* Of course.
"Sorry, Victoria," he says, but his eyes stay on me. "I got distracted."
Victoria follows his gaze, and her smile sharpens into something predatory. "Eloise Knox. The journalist." She makes my profession sound like a sexually transmitted disease. "How... brave of you to come tonight."
"Brave?" I echo, taking another sip of whiskey just to have something to do with my hands.
"Well, after that article you wrote about the Sinclair family. Absolutely scathing. I heard Richard Sinclair threatened to sue." She laughs, high and crystalline. "They're here tonight, you know. Third balcony, near the ice sculpture. This must be so awkward for you."
"Not particularly. I stand by every word."
"Of course you do." Victoria's grip on his arm tightens. "Cal, darling, your mother's been asking for you. She's getting that look."
He winces—just barely, but I catch it. "I'll be there in a minute."
"Now, darling." Her voice drops, loses some of that sugary coating. "You know how she gets when she's kept waiting. And you know what the doctor said about her blood pressure."
"The doctor also said she should stop trying to control every aspect of my life, but somehow that never makes it into the conversation."
"Cassian." Victoria's voice is sharp now, a warning.
*Cassian.*
The name hits me like a physical blow. The room tilts, spins, narrows to a pinpoint. Suddenly I'm nineteen again, standing in line for three hours, clutching a letter I'd rewritten seventeen times and a first-edition book I'd saved for months to buy. I'm watching him walk past, barely glancing at the sea of faces, until security had to pull me back because I'd stepped forward, tried to hand him my gift, tried to—
"—another one? Security, can we get some crowd control here? These girls are getting aggressive."
The memory crashes over me in waves. His laugh. The way he'd looked right through me like I was nothing. The letter crumpled in security's hands as they escorted me out. The book confiscated. The humiliation burning through my veins like acid.
I can't breathe.
"Eloise?" His voice—Cassian's voice, not Cal's, because Cal was never real—cuts through the memory. "Are you okay? You went pale."
I stand up too fast. The room sways. "I need to go."
"Wait—"
"I'm fine. I just—I need air."
Victoria's smile is triumphant now. "Of course. These parties can be overwhelming. Especially for people who aren't used to this world."
The condescension in her voice snaps me back to the present, gives me something to focus on that isn't the past trying to drown me.
"You're right," I say, grabbing my bag. "I'm not used to a world where people value appearances over authenticity. It's disorienting."
"Eloise—" Cassian starts, but Victoria cuts him off.
"Come on, darling. Mother is waiting." She's already pulling him away, and I watch as he transforms—watch the easy warmth drain from his expression, watch the mask slide back into place, watch him become whoever these people need him to be.
He glances back once, and there's something in that look—confusion, maybe, or concern—but I'm already moving toward the exit, already pushing through the crowd of people who part for him like the Red Sea but barely register my existence.
I make it outside before the panic attack hits fully. The cold air helps, but not enough. My hands are shaking, my chest is tight, and I can see the flash of cameras from that day seven years ago, can feel the weight of all those eyes, all that judgment—
"Ma'am? Are you alright?" A valet approaches, concern written on his young face.
"Fine. I'm fine. Just—can you get my car?"
"Of course. Ticket?"
I hand it over with trembling fingers, and then I'm alone again with my memories and my mistakes and the absolute certainty that coming here tonight was the worst decision I've made since writing that goddamn letter to Cassian Barton seven years ago.
My phone buzzes. Text from my editor: *Did you get anything usable tonight?*
I look at my bag, where my recorder has been running since the moment "Cal" sat down next to me. Forty-three minutes of conversation. His voice, his laugh, his careful deflections and unguarded moments.
*Evidence.*
My finger hovers over the reply.
"Eloise, wait!"
I spin around, and he's there—Cassian Barton, pop star, tech heir, the man who destroyed me without even remembering my face—jogging toward me like he has any right to follow me into the night.
"What?" The word comes out sharper than I intend, but I'm running on panic and adrenaline and seven years of buried rage.
He stops a few feet away, slightly breathless. "I don't know. I just—you left so fast."
"I told you. I needed air."
"Bullshit." He steps closer, and I force myself not to retreat. "Something happened in there. One second we were talking, and the next you looked like you'd seen a ghost."
"Maybe I did."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you should go back to your girlfriend and your mother and your perfectly curated life, Cal. Or should I say Cassian?"
His expression shifts—surprise, then understanding, then something that might be shame. "You know who I am."
"Of course I know who you are. Everyone knows who you are."
"But you didn't say anything. You let me introduce myself as Cal."
"I was curious about what kind of person lies about their own name."
"I wasn't lying. That's—my family calls me Cal. People I trust."
"And you trusted me? After forty-three minutes?"
"Yes." He says it simply, like it's obvious. "Shouldn't I have?"
The valet pulls up with my car—a sensible Honda that looks pathetic next to the Maseratis and Teslas lining the curb. Cassian glances at it, then back at me.
"Nice car," he says.
"It gets me where I need to go."
"I'm sure it does." He pulls something from his pocket—a business card, expensive stock, embossed lettering. "Look, I know this is probably forward, and you'll probably throw this away the second I leave, but—here."
He holds it out. I don't take it.
"What is it?"
"My private number. Not the one that goes through my assistant or my publicist or my mother's handlers. Just me."
"Why would you give me that?"
"Because I haven't had a real conversation in longer than I can remember, and you gave me one tonight." He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and subtle that probably has a waiting list. "Because you're interesting and infuriating and you make me feel like a person instead of a product."
"That's a very pretty speech."
"Is it working?"
"No."
"Damn." But he's smiling, that crooked smile that doesn't match his carefully curated image. "Will you at least take the card? You don't have to call. But if you ever want to continue verbally destroying me over expensive whiskey, the option's there."
Against every instinct I have, I take the card. His fingers brush mine, and the contact sends an unwelcome jolt through my system.
"I won't call," I say.
"Probably not." He shoves his hands in his pockets, looking younger suddenly, uncertain. "But I'll hope you do anyway."
"Cassian!" Victoria's voice cuts through the night, sharp with irritation. "Your mother is having an actual meltdown. We need you. Now."
He closes his eyes briefly, and I see it—the exhaustion, the resignation, the way he's steeling himself to go back and be whoever they need him to be.
"Duty calls," he mutters. Then, louder: "Coming!"
He starts to walk away, then turns back. "Eloise?"
"What?"
"Whatever I did to make you look at me like that—like you hate me but you're not sure why—I'm sorry."
The apology catches me off guard, steals the sharp response I was preparing.
"You don't even know what you're apologizing for," I say.
"No. But I know that look. I've seen it enough times to recognize it." He holds my gaze, and there's something almost desperate in his expression. "People don't usually give me second chances. But if you do call, I promise I'll try to deserve it."
Then he's gone, jogging back toward Victoria and the golden glow of the party and a life I can't even begin to understand.
I sit in my car for ten minutes before I can trust myself to drive.
The business card is still in my hand.
*Cassian Barton*
*Private Line*
And beneath it, handwritten in quick, messy script: *In case you change your mind about conversation.*
I should throw it away. Block the number preemptively. Forget this entire night ever happened.
Instead, I photograph it with my phone and save it under a single letter.
*C.*
Because I'm not ready to type his full name. Because seeing it makes the walls close in and the memories surface and the old wound reopen.
My phone buzzes. My editor: *New assignment. Thirty-thousand-word exposé. Your choice of subject. Make it count.*
I stare at the number saved in my phone.
Then I type back: *I have the perfect subject. Give me three months.*
*Done. What's the angle?*
My fingers hover over the keyboard. Seven years of humiliation, of rebuilding myself from the girl who cried over a celebrity who didn't know she existed, of swearing I'd never be that vulnerable again.
*The real Cassian Barton. The man behind the brand.*
*Love it. Destroy him.*
I look at his number one more time.
Then I smile.
*Oh, I will.*
—
