CHAPTER 1

It was Melody Peltz’s night.

And every single person in the marble-drenched ballroom of Peltz Art & Life knew it.

She stood near the towering glass podium, champagne flute in hand, the soft light from the crystal chandelier glittering against her skin. She wore black satin, cut with surgical precision, and a diamond hairpin that once belonged to her late mother. A deliberate choice. Everything she did was deliberate.

The applause still thundered in her ears as she stepped into the dim corridor behind the auction hall, her heels clicking softly against the marble. She accepted congratulations with a polite smile, nodding gracefully through praise and meaningless chatter. Behind her, the New York elite sipped vintage wine and talked about value in terms of provenance and price per square inch.

Champagne bubbles still danced on her tongue, her blood thrumming with the high of the evening. The Degas had sold for triple its estimate, the Warhol even more. Tonight had rewritten records, and written her name into the annals of art history.

And yet, she couldn’t exhale.

Maybe it was the weight of the gold Peltz name wrapped around her throat like a necklace too tight. Maybe it was the way her father’s eyes had scanned the crowd instead of meeting hers after the final bid. Always looking past her. He, Jason Peltz, had made an appearance earlier. Five minutes. One dry congratulations. Then he vanished into the arms of donors and old power. He hadn't so much as clinked glasses with her. Present, yet calculating the next move, always evaluating her wins with how many people sees her. Melody was done trying to prove she was more than the girl with a hyphenated pedigree and a perfectly arched eyebrow. Tonight, she'd made it impossible to overlook her. The industry had taken notice—and so had the competition.

She could see from the windows ahead, her sister scanning, carefully, the entire room. For her? For someone else? For a man she could steal from the scene?

Melody tucked a curl behind her ear and stared into the gilded mirror lining the corridor. Her black silk gown hugged her body like a second skin, modest in cut, yet devastating in how it hinted at what lay beneath. Her eyes, kohl-lined and smoky, sparkled, but not with joy. It was something else. Hunger, maybe. A dangerous longing she didn’t know how to name.

A sound behind her.

She turned.

He stood at the end of the corridor, framed by shadows and soft light from the party behind him. He was tall, obscenely tall, with dark hair that curled at his nape and a jaw sculpted like it had been carved for war. His suit was midnight black, tailored like sin, clinging to his broad shoulders and tapered waist. But it was his eyes...God, those eyes...that made her breath catch. Cold at first glance. Piercing. But not empty.

He wasn’t looking at the art.

He was looking at her.

Their gazes met.

And held, shortly.

She tilted her chin in acknowledgment.

He didn’t smile.

Didn’t raise a glass.

He just stared, and the intensity of it made her breath catch.

She turned back to her conversation with a lady at the bar corner–briefly–only to find herself glancing his way again seconds later.

He was gone. Melody blinked.

Maybe he hadn’t been real. Just a product of adrenaline and too many compliments.

But then–

“Interesting dress choice for a celebration.”

The voice brushed against her neck before she felt his presence behind her. She turned. He was closer now. Closer than he should’ve been, yet not close enough to draw suspicion. Just a whisper of a smirk on lips too perfect for real life. His eyes were... unreadable.

“Excuse me?” she asked.

He nodded toward the painting she stood near–a Rothko. “A piece about despair and disconnection, featured at a party meant to celebrate success. I find that interesting.”

Melody raised a brow, her pulse sharpening. “Most people wouldn’t notice.”

“I’m not most people.”

No. He certainly wasn’t.

“You’re not here for the art, are you?” she asked coolly.

“I’m here for the artist, inspiration comes from a source, I value the source more,” he said. Then his gaze dropped, just slightly.

Melody's lips twitched. She hadn’t smiled genuinely all night, but something about his calm, effortless challenge made her want to.

“And who are you exactly?” she asked. “An admirer?”

“Let’s say I have an eye for what’s rare.”

She should’ve walked away. Should’ve reminded herself that strangers who spoke like silk and shadow weren’t part of her world.

She had other hands to shake, other names to drop. But his presence was a gravity she wasn’t expecting.

“You’re not drinking,” he said, voice deep, with the polished edge of someone used to being listened to.

“I’ve had three glasses already,” Melody replied, lifting her chin. “But I suppose that depends on who’s asking.”

"You are good at interactions, negotiations with the Cravins were lovely." He said in reference to a family she had spoke with before stepping away from the center of it all.

"You were watching?" Melody asked.

“Watching is passive,” he said. “Admiring is... interactive. Intentional. Like standing in front of a painting and letting it touch something raw in you.”

Her pulse spiked.

“And what exactly do I touch in you?” she asked before she could stop herself.

He smiled, slow and dangerous. “You don’t want the real answer to that.”

She laughed, soft, breathy, unexpected. “Try me.”

He took another step. Close now. She could smell the faintest whiff of cedarwood and heat—clean, masculine, alluring.

“Then let me start here,” he said. “Let's forget about the world and business for just one night and have fun.”

“Come with me,” he said, without explanation.

She should have asked questions. Should have stepped back, closed the door, or laughed it off. But she didn’t.

Maybe it wasn’t about trust. Maybe it was about the stillness she’d been craving—the kind that comes when someone sees through the noise. Not the headlines or the stage lights. Just her.

And maybe that was more dangerous than anything she could’ve done.

They burst through the door of the suit at the heights of the building, like they were being chased by something—lust, maybe. Or the quiet ache of two people who hadn’t been touched properly in a long time. Melody’s back hit the wall with a soft thud, and the stranger’s mouth was on hers again, fierce and hungry, like she was the last beautiful thing he’d ever taste.

His hands were bold—gripping her hips, sliding up her back, cupping her face. She felt swallowed by him. Not dominated. Not forced.

Worshipped.

The moment the door clicked shut behind them, he turned to her like he was starving.

“You’re not shy,” he murmured, eyes on her mouth.

“No,” she said, voice low. “But I am tired of pretending to be good.”

He let out a low growl, more animal than man, and kissed her.

Not soft. Not cautious.

It was a claiming.

His mouth crushed against hers, lips fierce, tongue insistent. She gasped, and he took advantage of the sound, she wanted to be in control, not be controlled. She deepened the kiss until she was dizzy, until the only thing she could feel was the wild beat of her heart pounding against his chest. His hands moved with precision, one at the small of her back, the other gripping her thigh and hiking it around his waist like he already knew how she liked to be touched.

She had no idea how she got out of the dress. Maybe he’d torn it. Maybe she’d shrugged it off herself. All she knew was that her skin was bare, and his hands were fire. He lifted her effortlessly, like she weighed nothing, and laid her on the cool sheets of the bed.

Her breath came in sharp, needy pants. “You’re taking your time.”

“Of course I am,” he said, eyes devouring her. “You deserve to be unraveled, not rushed.”

He kissed down her neck, his lips trailing fire along her collarbone, between the curve of her breasts, to the dip of her stomach. Every inch of her came alive under his mouth. She arched into him, fingers tangled in his hair as his tongue dipped lower, teasing, tormenting, worshiping.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, lips brushing hers.

“Don’t you dare.”

He surged forward, mouth closing over her nipple as his hands slid down to her thighs, spreading them open as he guided her onto the bed. The contact of his tongue against her skin...his mouth hot, wet, greedy. He licked and sucked with an expert rhythm, memorizing the shape of her moans.

He moved lower.

Melody gasped when his mouth reached the heat between her thighs. He groaned like a man starved, tongue flicking against her spot before plunging deeper, licking, stroking, teasing. She writhed under him, fingers, of hands spread apart, knotted the bed...thighs tightening around his head.

And he didn’t stop.

He moaned into her. His hands pinned her hips in place, keeping her open, keeping her his.

“Oh God,” she cried out, her legs trembling, body arching off the bed as release tore through her, but he didn’t give her time to recover.

He rose above her, dark eyes blown wide, his mouth slick with her taste. He dragged his tongue across his bottom lip slowly—taunting her, claiming her.

“Fuck!” she panted, tears rolling down the sides of her eyes.

“I already have you.”

He stripped with swift precision, the sound of zippers and fabric hitting the floor like punctuation between breaths. When he climbed onto the bed, she gasped. Every inch of him was hard and carved—his chest broad, his abs ridged, his length thick and pulsing with desire. There was no hesitation in his movements and no apology he had to offer. Just raw, masculine intent.

“Turn over,” he commanded, voice low, velvet and danger.

She obeyed, her body alight.

He ran a hand down her spine, slow and possessive.

Then he thrust inside her.

She cried out, not from pain, but from the sheer intensity of it. Of him. He filled her completely, stretching her until she was gasping, her body bowing beneath the weight of him.

He started slow, deep strokes that left her trembling, grinding into her with deliberate control.

But it didn’t last.

His hand slid up her spine, fisted in her hair, pulling her up so her back met his chest.

Skin slapping skin. Her cries echoing against the glass walls. He drove into her harder, faster, his control unraveling with each thrust. And just when she thought she couldn’t take more, he wrapped a hand around her throat—not to choke, but to hold. Anchor. Own.

It pushed her over the edge.

Her muscles clenched around him as she shook reaching for a release, grabbing and biting to stifle the scream tearing from her throat.

He followed with a groan so primal it echoed through her bones, collapsing onto her, his body shuddering with release.

They lay there, tangled and sweaty.

He rolled to the side, pulling her with him, their legs still entwined, his lips brushing the curve of her shoulder.

Neither spoke.

There were no words uttered. The sound of their breath, however, took over the room while Melody thought of many...many things.

CHAPTER 2

The city was still draped in quiet gold when Melody slipped from the warmth of the penthouse suite.

Her heels were in her hands, her clutch pressed against her side, and her heart... unsteady. The soft click of the door behind her sounded far too final for something that had never truly begun.

She didn’t look back.

No goodbye. No note. No familiarity.

That was the rule last night, mutual anonymity, no strings, no regret. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself with every silent step down the plush hallway.

The hotel corridor was lit with a warm light, hushed in a way only luxury could afford. Melody’s black dress was wrinkled at the hem, the zipper slightly off-kilter. Her lipstick had faded, her curls were looser than when she arrived.

But her spine was straight, her chin lifted.

She had walked in bold. And she would leave the same way.

Behind the heavy double doors, the man remained asleep, still sprawled across a bed that now felt far too large, far too intimate. His breathing was steady, his body tangled in sheets that carried the print of her hands, her mouth, her memory.

She didn’t know who he was. She got a name but barely remembered it now.

And he hadn’t asked to know more except her name.

It had been a night of indulgence. No expectations. No consequences.

Or so she thought.

A few floors down, Fiona Peltz, Melody's sister, tipped the room service tray with one hand and lifted her coffee cup with the other. She leaned against the small balcony rail of her suite, her silk robe fluttering at her thighs, the espresso sharp against her tongue.

Then she saw her.

Melody.

Barely disguised in yesterday’s designer gown, slipping out of the elevator and heading for the private exit.

Fiona’s brows rose ever so slightly.

Her half-sister looked... wrecked in the way only a night of sex could do. Not sloppy, Melody was too tightly wound for that, but undeniably undone.

And where, exactly, had she come from?

Fiona stepped back into her suite, mind already spinning. She pulled her phone from the pocket of her robe and tapped into the hotel’s guest directory—restricted to VIP guests, of course, and discreetly available to those who knew how to request it.

Only two penthouses had been booked last night.

One was hers.

The other—

She smirked.

That one had been paid for in full under an anonymous title. No paper trail. No company charge. Just a single, unidentified reservation… for someone who clearly had something to hide.

Fiona set her cup down.

Slipped on her heels.

And headed upstairs.

The door was slightly ajar.

Fiona blinked, then smiled to herself.

Amateur.

She pushed it open a little wider, stepping into the luxury suite like it belonged to her.

The air inside was warm, tinged with the scent of sex and sandalwood. One of the sconces still glowed faintly by the bar, casting a muted gold across the room. Her eyes swept over the mess—two empty flutes, a black dress flung over the chaise, a single cufflink on the carpet.

And then her gaze landed on the bed.

There he was.

Asleep.

Broad shoulders. Long limbs. Dark hair mussed from fingers that clearly weren’t his own. His face was turned slightly to the side, lips parted, lashes fanned across high cheekbones.

And completely, blissfully unaware.

Fiona’s pulse quickened—not with desire. She was curious. Curious to know, who was this man her sister had left so quietly?

Ethan Lennox.

No Fucking way. Fiona almost chocked when the unmistakable profile of the most wealthy man stirs, threatening to wake up from the crazy dream.

“No way Melody slept with him. Wait, did she know who he’s? ”

In a split second, Fiona made up her mind. She could not let Melody have this, have HIM! What had happened didn’t matter. What Melody thought didn’t matter. What mattered was what she’s going to show him.

And what would he believe… if he woke to her instead?

She moved through the room slowly, deliberately, letting her robe fall open just enough to hint at bare skin underneath.

She slid out of her slippers, one by one.

Then, with practiced ease, Fiona lifted the edge of the sheet and slipped into the bed beside him.

His heat enveloped her immediately, the scent of cologne and skin melting into the linens. She adjusted the sheet, draping it across her hips, letting her shoulder remain bare.

She watched him.

He didn’t stir. Good.

Her fingers ghosted over his chest, not touching, just close enough that when he woke, it would feel like she’d always been there.

She tilted her head and whispered softly, as if talking to him in sleep. "Mmm. You wore me out last night..."

A lie, of course. But then, lies were Fiona’s currency. And she spent them lavishly. She nestled in closer, her lips inches from his ear, her presence subtle but undeniable. When he woke, dazed and slow, she would already be smiling. And he’d have no reason to question the story she was about to tell.

CHAPTER 3

A few days had passed since the gala, but the glamour of that night had curdled into a bitter aftertaste. What began as the proudest moment of Melody Peltz’s career was now buried beneath an avalanche of whisper campaigns and digital filth.

The headlines came first.

“Art of Seduction: Is Peltz's Legacy Built on Pillow Talk?”

Then the blogs.

Then the grotesque swarm of fake dating profiles, one in particular, using her full name, her photo, and even listing her title at Peltz Art & Life. She scrolled through the profile in horror. "Lover of fine art and finer men," it read. "If the painting doesn’t move you, I will."

Attached were screenshots of anonymous messages. Claims that she offered private gallery tours in exchange for “business intimacy.” One post claimed she slept with a gallery owner in Monaco to secure an exhibition. Another said she'd whispered promises of commission shares while tangled in sheets.

All lies. And yet, the comments section didn’t care.

She stormed into her office, nearly knocking over a sculpture stand. The once-pristine calm of her curated world had shattered.

"Mr. Jason wants you in the main boardroom."

She heard a voice. It was Nita, her father's assistant.

She straightened her cream blouse and wiped beneath her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. There wasn’t supposed to be anything to cry about. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Still, the headlines had pierced her like thorns.

"Peltz’s Leading Lady Accused of Trading Art for Intimacy."

"Inside the Seduction Scandal Tainting the Art World’s Royalty."

—And beneath each headline, her face. Her smile. Her name.

Only she wasn't sure if it was her name anymore. Not to the press. Not to her father. Not even to herself.

The door creaked open before she knocked.

Jason, her father and Director of ‘Peltz Arts and Life' sat behind his mahogany desk, silver hair immaculately combed, suit tailored like he’d stepped out of a power play. But his eyes—those flinty eyes—looked at her like she was a stranger.

“You’ve embarrassed this family,” Jason said without preamble.

“Good morning to you too,” Melody replied, her voice low but controlled.

He didn’t offer her a seat. “Shut the door.”

Melody obeyed, bracing.

Jason tapped the tablet screen in his palm and turned it to face her. “Care to explain this?”

Her breath caught as a video loaded.

It was of a man sitting in a dim room, his face smug behind a half-forced expression of regret. Melody wanted to hear what he had to say, and she did. The voices came in and she listened attentively.

“She said if I agreed to sponsor a few pieces, she’d make it worth my while,” he said. “I thought it was just drinks at first. Then… well. She was very persuasive.”

Melody felt the floor warm up under her feet, but she had never seen this man in her life, not even a brief encounter.

“I’ve never even seen that man in my life,” she said quietly, jaw tightening. “This isn’t real.”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “So the fake dating profile that surfaced yesterday using your photos isn’t real either?”

“I didn’t make it,” Melody said. Her voice trembled despite her effort to sound firm. “That account isn’t mine.”

“It had your work contact,” he snapped.

“It is NOT mine,” she insisted, voice rising. “Someone’s trying to ruin me.”

“Someone?” Fiona’s voice rang like a bell dipped in syrup. She stood in the corner, arms folded, her soft lilac blouse looking innocent enough to fool a priest. Melody just noticed her now for the first time since she entered the room. “That’s a strong accusation, Melody. Maybe this is just… a misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding?” Melody turned sharply. “You think a fake profile offering sex for sponsorships is just a misunderstanding?”

Fiona blinked innocently. “I didn’t say you made it.”

Her voice was measured. Sweet. But Melody knew poison when she heard it.

Jason cut between them. “The board under investigation for fraudulent dealings and sexual coercion.”

Melody’s jaw dropped. “Because of this? Because of fake men saying I slept with them for sales? That’s absurd! I met a man, ONE man after Degas and Warhol, who even– Jason cut her short.

“You admit to that?” Jason’s voice turned sharp.

“I’m not ashamed of it,” she snapped. “Maybe if you had given work a break for one night and appreciated your wins, my wins, our wins, the company we have made and how far we have come, maybe if you had recognized me, this wouldn't have happened. I’m not apologizing for being a woman with agency. But I’ve never mixed business with—”

“You’ve destroyed our family name,” he roared, slamming a fist on the desk.

Melody flinched.

“You’ve humiliated us in front of the board, the press, and our buyers. Peltz Art & Life was built by my reputation—”

“It was built by my mother,” Melody cut in, her voice suddenly cold. “She founded it, she curated the first ten exhibitions, and when she died, you slid into the director’s seat like a vulture. And then you brought her”—she threw a glance at Fiona—“into our house while Mom’s perfume still clung to her clothes. You destroyed this family long ago!"

He came around the desk with focused and deliberate steps, and for a moment, she thought he might reach for her hand—might show some flicker of fatherly care. But instead, he struck her.

The slap echoed.

Melody staggered back, clutching her cheek, breath ragged.

Jason, slowly, calmly, with an undercurrent of cold steel. "My daughter—my daughter—couldn’t possibly be so naïve, so reckless, so astonishingly short-sighted as to hand-feed the wolves with scraps of her own reputation, all while still wearing the family crest around her neck. No.That would be unthinkable. To you, is this some minor scandal that the public will tire of after their morning espresso? The entire company soon will come crashing down and I...ONLY I can save it and you run your mouth at me?"

“You want me to believe you're innocent? That someone else did this to you?” He scoffed, leaning forward like a man who’d waited years for this moment. “Maybe they did. Maybe. But it was your face. Your name. Your stupidity. You walked into this with your eyes wide shut, and now you want sympathy? You want redemption?” He laughed, sharp and joyless. “You’re not a victim, Melody. You’re an embarrassment.”

His voice echoed off the walls, dragging its weight across the table between them. “I gave you everything. Not because you earned it—but because you had my blood. That was your only qualification. My last name. And look what you did with it. You didn’t build anything. You threw a party and called it a kingdom.”

He stood, slowly, deliberately, like his presence alone was punishment. “I’ve watched boys with half your inheritance make ten times the mark. But you? You thought the world would bow because you showed up. You thought having my name was enough to keep you clean. Let me be clear: you are not clean, and I’m not here to clean you.”

His eyes narrowed, cruel and cold. “I don’t care what the truth is. I care what it looks like. And right now? You look like a tabloid whore with no sense of consequence. No pride. Just excuses and mascara and headlines I never asked for.”

He moved around the table, slow and circling. “Don’t forget who put you in that chair and how many people I had to erase, bury, to put you there. I let you sit at the top, Melody. I never said it was yours to keep. You were a placeholder. A pretty picture for the press. But I can tear it all down just as quickly.”

His voice dropped into a hiss, right against her ear. “And don’t think I won’t. The difference between you and me? I know how to survive the fall. You? You still think you’re flying.”

He stepped back, finally done, as if he hadn’t just taken a hammer to her spine and called it parenting.

"One day you’ll realize that the only thing keeping your world from burning to ash…

Was me, even now, still me."

“Your role here has been dissolved, effective immediately. I-- slowly Jason started with his gaze firm on her. --Disown you.” Jason sternly spoke.

Tears flooded her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. Not here. Not in front of them.

Fiona couldn’t hide her smirk and gestured Melody to leave. “Stop embarrassing yourself, Melody. Let yourself out before it turns ugly. We don’t have much time left to clean up the mess you made.”

The mess I made? The betrayal laced in that phrase cut deeper than her father’s hand. Fiona wanted her gone. She’d always wanted her gone.

Melody squared her shoulders and looked Jason in the eye.

She turned and walked out of the office, not giving them the satisfaction of seeing her fall apart.

Only when she reached the elevator did she allow a single tear to fall. By the time the doors opened on the ground floor, her face was composed, but her world was collapsing.

She sank onto a bench outside the building and pulled out her phone. She needed to check the news—needed to see how far the fire had spread.

The first headline read:

Another Buyer Comes Forward—Claims Melody Peltz Traded Auction Seat for Sex.

The man’s name was blurred, but his words were quoted in bold:

“She said, ‘Support my work and I’ll make your night unforgettable.’ I didn’t know how to say no.”

Melody let out a breath that trembled like a string about to snap. She pressed her hand to her chest. It physically hurt.

Another headline flashed:

"Peltz's Heiress or Honeytrap? Leaked Messages Reveal More Than Just Art."

She scrolled further and found screenshots—fabricated ones—showing conversations she never had. Filthy words twisted into her likeness. Smirks typed in her tone.

It was all fake.

But it felt real.

Too real.

She wanted to scream. But all she could do was sit there, stone-faced, as passersby whispered and pointed.

Somewhere in the distance, a cab horn blared.

Her phone buzzed again. Another notification. Then another.

She had seen it all by now, what hate speech was in any of the texts that she hadn't read? What alteration of “Whore” title did they call that she hadn't been called yet?

CHAPTER 4

She wanted a new life. She wanted peace and even that she didn't get.

Melody stared into the mirror. Same eyes, same jawline, same scar on her upper lip. But the girl looking back didn’t feel like her.

She was thinner now. Worn. A faded watercolor of the woman who once commanded entire rooms with a smile and a brushstroke. Her phone vibrated on the counter, the tenth time that morning. She didn’t check it. She knew the name. She knew the words would ache.

“I’m sorry,” “Let’s talk,” “Please.”

But what did apologies matter when the damage had already been framed, hung, and auctioned off to the highest bidder?

She threw the phone into a drawer and slammed it shut. Out of sight, out of reach. But not out of mind.

She cut her hair the next day. A blunt bob, jet black. Something unlike her. She switched her signature red lipstick for a shade called Quiet Rose. A lie of a name. Nothing about her was quiet anymore—not the headlines, not the whispers in gallery halls, not the silence in her father’s voices when he disowned her.

Her agent dropped her. Her father refused to let her step foot into the family’s gallery. Even the press releases referred to her now as Melody, the fallen prodigy. And truthfully, she didn’t fight it. Because somewhere deep inside, she believed she deserved it.

She packed her brushes away in soft cloth. Wrapped her old canvases in newspaper and shoved them into the storage unit behind her flat. The studio lights hadn’t been on in weeks. And still, somehow, the space smelled of failure.

Two weeks later, she bought a one-way ticket to Florence. A master’s in Art History. A fresh start.

She used to make art, now she would study it. It makes sense to her. Florence wasn’t about art. It was about distance. A place where her name didn’t sting, where she could be just another girl carrying heartbreak in her luggage.

She sent a single email before leaving:

To: Gallery Board & Family

Subject: Departure

“I’ll be gone by Friday. I don’t expect your blessings. I only hope the silence stops echoing once I’m out of reach.”

She didn’t sign it with love. There wasn’t any left to give.

GREENCITY ESTATE

BEL AIR.

A quiet estate in Bel Air, Ethan Lennox stood at the edge of the apartment and his engagement as well. He looked like he just walked out of a magazine page. Condescending. Regal. Bored. No more bored than he always seemed to be.

The grand Perry residence had always been too clean. Too polished. Marble floors, sculpted hedges, and art pieces chosen not for their soul but for their price tag. Emily Perry, heiress to Perry Capital, walked like she knew the floor would hold her, always.

She was stunning. Elegant. Educated. And utterly wrong for him.

Their engagement had been a business deal dressed in diamonds. Emily’s father wanted someone with a longer lineage, just so to protect his dying one. Ethan's mother wanted a daughter-in-law who could double as a brand ambassador. And he… wanted out.

He didn’t expect the one night situation he had to be the one to hand him the key. A call came in where he stood gazing at the fleet of luxury at his feet. It was the girl who shared the bed with him at the hotel during Peltz latest exhibition. He declined the call the first two times just before a message came in.

“I’m pregnant.”

The text read without hellos and pleasantries. He scanned his thoughts until the realization hit him. Peltz Art and Life Exhibition, the girl he hooked up with. At least that was the most recent encounter he has had.

He blinked. “What?” He didn't text it, he sent a voice message.

“We did it raw. And I thought you deserved to know” Fiona typed.

He felt the walls shrink. The world tilted.

The girl who had been a mistake one night , so he thought. The girl he wasn’t supposed to feel anything for—was now rewriting his entire life.

“I need time to think,” he said out, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Still leaving the message as it was.

Maybe, maybe this wasn’t about a baby. Maybe this was about an exit. A way out. Because truth be told, he’d been looking for one, even if handed it to him in a ribbon of guilt and consequence.

By the time Emily returned from her spa retreat in Sedona, the decision had already been made.

Emily Perry, dazzling in white linen and Prada sunglasses, sipped her tea as he repeated the news he had already passed to her through his assistant.

“You’re what?” she said, voice cold as her iced chai.

“I’m calling off the engagement.” He made clear, his eyes not wavering from her even as she pulled off her sunglasses.

She tilted her head, but her eyes didn’t flinch. Almost like there was no cause for love, almost like she just wanted the title of his surname.

“Because of a girl you knocked up?”

She barely got the answer she wanted.

Emily stood, placed her cup down, and laughed—once, short, cruel. “I should’ve known you’d find a way to crawl out of this without a backbone. Good luck with the peasant. But don’t think for a second that father will forgive this little scandal. I won’t either.”

She left without waiting for a response and he watched her go, wondering if he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life. Or the first real decision he’d ever owned.

While somewhere across the world, on a cramped international flight, Melody stared out at the clouds, praying the skies held peace, or at least anonymity.

She didn’t know what came next. She only knew that it wouldn’t be him.

Not anymore.

CHAPTER 5

Melody Peltz was dead. At least, in every way that mattered.

Her name had changed, her world had quieted, and the war drums of her past had been smothered beneath layers of calm, delicate, intentional calm. She took a new identity, someone different than who she was, yet similar in the ways that mattered. Pearl Miller was tucked inside a modest walk-up apartment on Bellvine Street with her four-year-old daughter, Juno.

The name change wasn’t just about safety, it was survival. It was the only way to exist after what she left behind. The girl before, Melody, had been broken by the system by power, lies, and a betrayal that should have ended her. Now she’s Pearl Miller.

She worked as the assistant curator at Bridge Gallery, a small, nonprofit art space nestled quietly in the Industrial District. It was just obscure enough to keep her invisible, just noble enough to feed her spirit. The whitewashed brick walls, the scent of canvas and varnish, the hushed, holy silence that came with new exhibitions, this was her sanctuary.

Pearl had made a home of smallness. She no longer ran in the circles of the elite, no longer brushed shoulders with billionaires or gave press interviews. Every part of her life now required careful planning, right down to the plastic containers in her fridge, labeled and dated for Juno’s sake.

Juno was everything.

Her curly hair was always a little wild, her questions were endless, her heart so large it filled every inch of their small apartment. She had no idea of the past her mother escaped and Pearl intended to keep it that way. She knew only that her mother worked in a gallery and painted at night when she thought Juno was asleep.

But even peace has its cost.

Pearl had spent months trying to get Juno into Brookedge Academy, one of the most prestigious private schools in the state. The kind of place where legacy names were whispered in reverence and scholarships were rare miracles.

Brookedge required family interviews. Parent evaluations. And worse, it required signatures from both parents.

Pearl had forged documents before, but this time, it felt like a dangerous line. If she slipped, she wouldn’t just lose her name. She’d lose Juno.

And then there was Gary Manson.

The school's president. Older, with the kind of wealth that came from boarding schools and generational land titles. He’d visited the gallery before, admiring pieces with the cool detachment of someone who didn’t need to be impressed. She recognized him but he barely knew her, at least this version of her: Pearl.

That day, she had been alone at the gallery, preparing the display tags for an incoming exhibition when he walked in unannounced.

“Still pushing for Brookedge, are we?” he asked, fingers tracing along the edge of a minimalist sculpture she hadn’t even placed yet.

Pearl stiffened. “I submitted the application. We're waiting for a final review.”

Gary looked around the empty gallery, then took a slow step toward her. “There’s one more step we could take. Something... mutually beneficial.”

She didn’t like the way his eyes moved. She didn’t like the way his voice softened as he came closer.

“You want your daughter in? I can make it happen. Full scholarship. All you have to do is make me feel... invested.”

Pearl felt the walls closing in.

“I don’t think I understand,” she said flatly.

He smirked. “Don’t pretend you’re new to this. You’ve lived among men like me.” That one hit a spot for Pearl even though she knew he didn't know her.

“You know exactly how this works. I’m giving you the door, Pearl. You just have to step through it.”

She took a small step back. Her fingers clenched the notepad in her hand.

And then the bell over the gallery door jingled.

She turned sharply.

The sound struck her chest before her ears could process it. Just a soft chime. Familiar. But everything inside her stilled.

And then her eyes found him. Her breath didn’t return.

It was as though the gallery ceiling lowered in an instant. The walls. The lights. The air. Everything crowded in close and heavy and still.

Her eyes met a face that drew her mind.

His looks dropped through her like a stone into water, sharp and fast and absolute. She didn't move. Couldn’t. Her knees bent slightly, as though her body half-prepared to flee, half-surrendered to collapse.

He stood just within the frame of the doorway, framed by soft rainlight and the flicker of traffic outside. For a second, he didn't see her. He was adjusting the weight of something in his arms, a linen-covered frame held close to his chest and then he looked up.

And the world ended. Quietly. Without ceremony. Without warning.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn't think. Not properly.

He looked like a half-remembered dream brushing up against waking thought. She didn’t recognize him, not really, but something in her stirred. Like he’d been part of her once—in a life she couldn't quite reach, in a version of herself she'd buried. She wasn't sure.

He looked like a memory.

Handsome, yes. Unreasonably so. But that wasn’t what unstrung her. It was the familiarity threaded through the lines of his face. The sharp jaw. The unreadable eyes. The quiet command. Paint clung to the edge of his wrist, like it had grown there, like he couldn’t quite wash the art off him. It made her chest tighten.

She didn’t know him.

And yet she felt known.

Panic curled beneath her ribs. Did he recognize her from her past? Did he see through the skin, the name, the life she had built brick by careful brick? Did he know?

She hoped not.

She prayed he didn’t know the version of her that once made reckless decisions and chased strange nights with louder lies. That girl had vanished.

No—that girl had been burned down.

She was different now. She looked different too. Her hair was longer. Softer. Her frame leaner, stronger. She moved slower, more certain. Her smile didn’t come as easily. Her voice didn’t rise as much.

Still, something in her was afraid that he could read through the edits.

So she said nothing. Just stood there, fingers curled at her sides, while he looked at her like maybe he wasn’t the one who forgot.

And he was staring now. Not at the room. Not at Gary. At her.

She knew the moment he saw her.

His expression didn’t break, it let the ghost of something rise behind his eyes. Recognition. Confusion. Caution.

But she wasn’t ready for any of that. Not here. Not in this body. Not in this life.

She tried to speak. Tried to lift her voice to meet the moment, but her throat burned closed. Her mind filled with the static of too many memories clashing for attention. She wanted to know him yet thought that just knowing another man would ruin her life more.

Gary was still talking, or maybe just breathing too close behind her. She couldn’t hear him. All her attention was magnetized toward the doorway and the man standing in it.

Something inside her snapped—quietly, like thread under too much tension. Her legs moved first, disobeying her entirely. Then her hand, letting go of the notepad like it no longer mattered.

She walked to him.

Three strides, maybe four. Each one stolen from whatever version of herself she’d been pretending to be since the day she left.

And then—without fully knowing why—she slipped her hand through the crook of his arm.

The gesture was simple. Soft. But her fingers trembled against the fabric of his coat, and her nails pressed into his sleeve like she needed to feel bone to be sure this wasn’t a dream.

“My husband’s here,” she said, voice low and barely steady.

A pause.The words tasted foreign as they left her tongue, but the intention landed like stone on wet glass.

He looked down at her. Then at Gary.

And then back again.