Chapter 1

My fiancé lost me in a poker game.

To the billionaire who owns half of Manhattan.

Then he posted my fattest photo for four hundred people to laugh at.

And he bet thirty grand I'd be too ashamed to show my face.

He forgot one thing.

Whose name is on the building.

My plane had barely landed at JFK when my phone started screaming. Fifty-three notifications from Park Avenue Insiders, the private group chat where every old-money family and every Whitaker Group executive lives.

Pinned at the top was a gold banner:

[CONGRATS TO DAMIEN CROSS ON HIS NEW PRIZE!]

Below it was a photo of a napkin from last night's private poker game at the Sterling Club. An IOU, scrawled in blue ink. The signature belonged to Ryan Kessler, Interim CEO of the Whitaker Group.

The stake read: Sloane Whitaker.

Me.

Ryan was my fiancé. For three years he'd kept our engagement secret, swearing he'd announce it "once the board respects me on my own." This whole year I'd been in London finishing my MBA, he'd called every single night to tell me he couldn't sleep without me.

The moment I landed, he traded me away like a casino chip.

Before I could breathe, he posted again.

A photo of me from four years ago. My father's funeral. One hundred and eighty-five pounds. A stretched-out black sweater. Puffy, red eyes. The girl everyone in that chat used to call "the Whitaker Whale" behind my back.

Ryan: [Meet the prize, fresh back from "school." Damien, if she's too much woman for you, I'll throw in a gym membership.]

The chat went feral.

[LMAOOO is this a gift or a punishment?]

[Cross is going to need a crane.]

[A year of British scones? She's 250 now. Minimum.]

[RIP Damien's spine.]

Then a voice note hit my DMs. Ryan sounded hungover and bored.

"Sloane, listen. Drop the fairy tale for a second. I lost the Hudson Yards deal to Cross last night. The only way to keep it was to put up something with the Whitaker name on it. That's you. Show up to the Winter Gala tomorrow at seven, do his three little tasks, and smile. Do not embarrass me."

My knuckles went white around the phone.

Three years of whispered I love yous. And to him, I was a bargaining chip.

Then someone opened a poll in the chat:

[BETTING NOW OPEN: Will the Whale actually show up tomorrow?]

Ryan voted first. Thirty thousand dollars on NO.

[She'll hide in her apartment and cry into a family-size pizza.]

Then Chloe Sinclair, the CFO's daughter and the city's most annoying influencer, sent a sugary voice message:

"Ry, babe, don't be so mean! I know she's a little... extra. But she's still the late Mr. Whitaker's daughter. Sloane, sweetie, if you're scared, just beg Ryan to cancel it. I'll ask him to go easy on you."

Babe.

I walked into the airport bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. I took off my sunglasses and let my oversized wool coat slide off my shoulders.

The woman in the mirror wore a fitted black dress. Sharp collarbones. A waist I could circle with my hands. Long, toned legs. Cheekbones that could cut glass.

In London, I had boxed at five every morning and run the Thames every night until I went from 185 pounds to 120. I learned to throw a punch. I learned to stand tall. I learned to read a balance sheet faster than any man in my class.

I came home for love.

Instead, I came home to a war.

I opened the betting channel, linked my account, and put fifty thousand dollars, every cent I had saved, on YES.

The chat stopped cold.

[WHO JUST DROPPED 50K ON YES??]

[Wait. Is that... HER account?]

I wiped away one last tear. It would be the last one Ryan Kessler ever got from me.

Then I typed my first message in a year:

[I'll be there at seven sharp. Save me a seat.]

The chat exploded with laughing emojis.

Then, all at once, it went dead silent.

Because for the first time in eight years, Damien Cross was typing.