The chandelier sparkled above like a cascade of frozen starlight, spinning fractured light over the champagne-soaked crowd of Ireland's elite. The Emerald Gala was the social event of the season, held at the Royal Hibernian Gallery and sponsored, in no small part, by Vauhn Global Holdings.
Melissa Vauhn stood at the edge of the ballroom, swaying slightly in her crystal-encrusted Valentino gown, a flute of champagne in her hand and a cigarette clutched between two fingers like a weapon. Her smoky eyeshadow was smudged at the corners, her lips a bold scarlet that had faded after too many drinks and not enough care.
"Darling, you look like a Greek goddess with a hangover," said Aria Duvall, appearing beside her in a floor-length emerald dress that shimmered like snake scales.
Aria always looked immaculate. Everything about her—her sleek black bob, her designer heels, the sharp tilt of her chin—screamed precision. She was the kind of woman who could smile at your face and slit your throat with your own champagne flute without blinking.
"You're sweet," Melissa murmured, taking a long drag of her cigarette. "Except I feel like a trash bag someone lit on fire."
"Mm. A glamorous trash fire."
They laughed, the sound brittle and too loud. Around them, tuxedos and gowns swirled in polite conversation. Senators and CEOs. Ballet dancers and billionaires. Cameras flashed. Waiters carried silver trays of hors d'oeuvres like offerings to the gods of excess.
"I saw your parents earlier," Aria said, sipping from her glass without looking at Melissa. "Your mum looks like she's trying not to cry. Again."
Melissa rolled her eyes. "She always looks like that when she's in the same room as me."
"Well, you did show up two hours late and possibly high. Hard to say."
Melissa shrugged. "Fashionably late is still fashionable."
Aria leaned closer. "And what's your excuse for skipping the university board meeting yesterday? Your name was on the program."
"I was busy."
Aria arched a brow. "With a bottle of gin and some guy named Declan?"
Melissa didn't answer. Her gaze drifted across the room, searching for something—someone—to distract her from the ache building in her chest. It was always there lately, a kind of empty humming in her ribs, like she'd forgotten something important but couldn't remember what.
"Darling, you're falling apart," Aria said sweetly. "It's starting to show."
Melissa turned sharply. "Thanks for the concern, but I didn't ask for a performance review, especially not from you, that would be hypocritical of you don't you think?."
"Oh, I'm not concerned," Aria said, tilting her head. "Just fascinated. You used to be so… radiant."
Melissa said nothing.
Aria's smile curled like smoke. "Anyway. Your dad just got a call from security. There's press outside. Apparently, someone leaked those photos of you from last week's party. The one with the balcony and the line of coke."
Melissa's heart stuttered. "How bad is it?"
"Let's just say… you're trending again."
Melissa clenched her jaw. "Do you ever tire of feeding off my drama?"
Aria laughed. "Never. It's too delicious. And frankly, without you, Dublin's elite would be insufferably boring."
Melissa downed the rest of her champagne and set the flute on a passing tray.
"I need air."
"You need rehab."
Melissa walked away without responding, her heels clicking across the marble floor like distant gunfire. She pushed through the side doors and stepped onto a secluded balcony.
The night was crisp and quiet, the Dublin skyline glittering in the distance. For a moment, she allowed herself to breathe. Her head buzzed with alcohol, but beneath it was something sharper—shame. Guilt. Loneliness.
From her purse, she pulled out her phone. Thirty-two unread messages from her mother. One from her father: Come home. We need to talk.
She stared at it. Then deleted it.
A door creaked behind her.
She turned, expecting Aria. But it wasn't.
It was a stranger.
Tall. Dark-skinned. Handsome in a quiet, self-assured way. He wore a tailored black suit, not rented. He had the presence of someone who didn't need introductions or permission to belong—but also, someone who wasn't fooled by the glitter of the room.
He looked right at her.
Melissa blinked. "You're not from around here."
A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "No," he said in a voice deep and smooth. "I'm not. Thank you, everyone here loves to remind me of that." The rather strange smile remained on his face.
Then, just as quickly as he appeared, he nodded once and disappeared back inside, the door clicking shut behind him.
Melissa stared after him, heart strangely unsettled.
She didn't know who he was.
She didn't know that she'd just seen him for the first time.