My life took a dramatic turn the night of the Diamond Party. It wasn’t just any event—it was the most exclusive celebration of the year, the kind where dresses cost more than my car and the air smelled like money, perfume, and ambition. Getting the shift as a waitress had been a miracle. I, Harper, was nothing more than a shadow gliding between tables, there to refill glasses and pretend I wasn’t drowning in student loans.
His table was a world unto itself. And at its center sat Dominic Ravenswood. No one needed an introduction. His very presence screamed power. Old money. Generational power. Arrogance tailored as sharply as his ivory-colored Italian jacket. His circle roared with laughter, tossing back Dom Pérignon like it was tap water.
Then it happened.
A guest swerved unexpectedly. Someone bumped my elbow. The champagne flute in my hand tipped forward, and the golden liquid arced through the air like a slow-motion disaster—landing squarely on Dominic’s pristine shoulder.
Silence swallowed the music whole.
The stain spread across his jacket like a bruise.
Dominic rose with the kind of calm that terrified me. His slate-gray eyes scanned me, assessing me like I was an insect.