Chapter 2

Damien Cross. Thirty years old. Self-made. Ruthless. The man who'd bought out three of Manhattan's oldest dynasties before he turned twenty-eight. His profile was a plain black circle. He'd been in that chat for eight years and had never sent a single word.

Until now.

Damien Cross: [She is not anyone's prize.]

Six words. Not one person dared to reply.

My phone rang before I could process it. Ryan.

I picked up, and his voice nearly blew out my eardrum.

"Have you lost your mind? Betting on yourself in front of everyone? Do you know how stupid you just made me look?"

I stopped in the middle of the terminal and laughed. "You put me on a poker table, Ryan. You did that all by yourself."

"I did it for the company!" There it was, that tone he always used when I was being "difficult." "You've been playing student in London for a year while I held your father's empire together. Did I complain? He's been gone four years, Sloane. Wake up. You're not a princess anymore. You're a girl with a famous last name and nothing else."

"So you posted my funeral photo," I said quietly. "From the worst day of my life."

When Dad died, my world caved in. No mother. No real friends. Just people who smiled at my father's money and whispered about my body at charity lunches. I stopped eating, then I couldn't stop. I stopped sleeping.

Ryan was the one who found me crying on the back steps of the Hamptons house at three in the morning. He sat with me until sunrise. He wiped my face with his sleeve and said, I don't care what they say. You're beautiful. Marry me.

Then he begged me to keep it quiet. If they find out, they'll say I only got the CEO job because of you. Let me earn it first.

So I hid. For three years. I was his secret.

On the flight home, I'd pictured his face when he saw me. I thought maybe, finally, he'd say my name out loud in front of everyone.

He did say it out loud.

On a napkin IOU.

"The rules for tomorrow are set," Ryan snapped. "One: you share a champagne toast with Cross, arms linked. Two: a cheek-to-cheek photo posted in the chat. Three: he carries you across the ballroom for fifteen seconds. Bridal style. If he doesn't throw out his back, you should send him a thank-you card. Now get in the chat, apologize, and cancel your bet."

"No."

I hung up and blocked his number.

The official rules dropped in the chat a minute later, every line built to humiliate me.

[Fifteen seconds?? Somebody call his chiropractor.]

[Bridal carry LOL. They're gonna need two billionaires.]

My phone buzzed with a FaceTime. Mia, my only real friend in this city. Her mascara was already running from rage.

"Sloane! I'm going to key his Porsche. I'm serious. I'm grabbing my keys right now—"

"Don't." I looked at my reflection in a dark shop window, at the stranger with my eyes. "Keying his car is too small. He still thinks I'm the girl he can step on."

"Then what do we do?"

I smiled. "We find me the most dangerous dress in New York."

Mia's jaw dropped. Then she grinned like a demon. "Oh, I am SO in."

After we hung up, I noticed a little red dot on my screen.

A private message. From the black circle.

Damien Cross: [If you don't want to come tomorrow, you don't have to. No one will touch you. Not even him.]

My fingers started to shake.

Then, right below it, a second message appeared.

Damien Cross: [But if you do come, I'll be waiting at the door.]