The diner was my second shift, the one that bled into the late evening. The air was thick with the smell of grease and coffee, and my feet throbbed in my cheap, non-slip shoes. I was wiping down a sticky booth when my phone vibrated—a single, cryptic text from an unknown number. "Asset transfer initiated. Stand by for liaison contact. - M.C. Trustees "I stared at it, baffled. "Asset transfer? " It had to be a wrong number. Or one of those sophisticated scams you hear about. I deleted it and went back to scrubbing dried ketchup off the vinyl. In my world, "assets" were the extra tips you sometimes found under a plate.When my shift finally ended at 10 PM, exhaustion was a heavy cloak draped over my shoulders. The walk home was long, the night air cool. All I could think about was Sarah. The lie. The photo. The gummy bears I couldn't afford burning a hole in my backpack. I needed to see her, to look her in the eye and ask for the truth.But as I trudged up the manicured lawn of the Bl

I woke up in a bed so comfortable I thought I was still dreaming.Hell, I couldn't tell the difference between dream and reality anymore.For a long moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling—which was at least fifteen feet above me—trying to remember where I was. Then it all came flooding back. Sarah. Dylan. The hundred million dollars. Victoria Ashford.The penthouse!I sat up slowly, taking in my surroundings in the morning light. The bedroom alone was bigger than the entire storage closet I'd been sleeping in at the Blake house. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city skyline. The furniture looked like it belonged in a museum. There was actual art on the walls—not prints, but original paintings.My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I grabbed it and saw a text from an unknown number.*Good morning. Breakfast will be ready in the dining room whenever you are. Take your time. - Victoria*I glanced at the clock. 9:47 AM. I couldn't remember the last time I'd

Three days after moving into my new loft, I was starting to feel almost normal. Or at least, what passed for normal in this new reality.The apartment was incredible. Two floors of open space with exposed brick walls, massive windows that looked out over the city, and furniture that probably cost more than I used to make in a year. I'd spent the first night just walking around, touching things, making sure they were real.Victoria had been true to her word. She'd arranged everything—movers to transport my belongings (though calling them "belongings" was generous; most of what the Blakes had thrown in those garbage bags was hardly worth keeping), a personal shopper to fill my closet with actual clothes instead of secondhand Walmart clearance, even a chef who'd stocked my refrigerator with food I couldn't pronounce.I was sitting at my kitchen island—because I had a kitchen island now—drinking coffee that cost more per pound than I used to spend on groceries, when I checked my email on

My phone buzzed with a reminder. 2:45 PM. The car would be here soon.I decided to go down to the lobby to meet the delivery. I needed to get out of my apartment anyway, clear my head before Sarah sent another desperate email.The elevator ride down was smooth and silent. When the doors opened, I stepped into the marble-floored lobby, nodding at the security guard who'd dealt with Sarah earlier."Mr. Cole," he said with a respectful nod. "Your vehicle just arrived. The delivery driver is waiting outside.""Thanks."I walked through the glass doors and stopped short.The BMW was beautiful. Sleek, black, with tinted windows and chrome accents that caught the afternoon sun. The delivery driver, a young guy in a crisp uniform, was holding a tablet and a set of keys."Mr. Cole?" he asked."That's me.""Congratulations on your new vehicle, sir. If you'll just sign here..." He handed me the tablet. "I'll walk you through the features."I signed where he indicated, still half-convinced this w

"So," Olivia said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Tell me more about yourself, mysterious hotel owner. I have a feeling you're going to make Prestige a lot more interesting."I took a sip of champagne, buying myself a second to think. The truth was impossible—*I found out I was rich about a week ago* wasn't exactly compelling dinner party conversation. "I'm not that mysterious.""Really?" She tilted her head, studying me with an intensity that made me feel like a specimen under glass. "Because Victoria Ashford doesn't escort nobodies to galas. And you're wearing a tuxedo that costs more than most people's taxes , but you look like you'd rather be anywhere else.""Maybe I just don't like parties.""No." She stepped closer, and I caught the faint scent of her perfume—something expensive and understated. "You don't like *these* parties. There's a difference."She was reading me too easily. I needed to redirect. "What about you? You seem pretty comfortable here for someone who claims