Chapter one
Hailee
Heavyrainpoundsagainstthe metal roof of the taxi, creating a deafening roar that echoes the nervous anticipation thumping in my chest. I swipe my palm across the fogged cab window and peer out at my destination: Madison Avenue hot spot The Drawing Room. It’s not just any restaurant—it’s one of the most exclusive dining rooms in New York, known as much for its elite clientele as its innovative menu. No wonder my mother chose this place. It’s the kind of restaurant where every detail is meticulously curated, much like the facade she works hard to maintain.
Exhaling loudly, I close my eyes for a moment and remind myself why I’m here. Why I flew more than twenty hours to have dinner with my mother.
For my sister, Beth.
Suck it up, you can do this.
Asking my mother for a favor shouldn’t be this hard. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t seem like a huge ask. What mother wouldn’t want to do everything in her power to help save her daughter? To extend her life by giving her the operation she desperately needs?
It’s been ten years since I last saw her, and even that doesn’t feel like long enough. The memory of our last encounter still stings, and the thought of facing her again makes my stomach twist. As much as I’ve tried to distance myself from her toxic presence, life has pulled me back into her orbit, and I’m dreading every second of it.
I’d rather stick needles in my eyes than ask my mother for anything. But I will endure this conversation and swallow my pride a thousand times for Beth. I would do anything for her.
I tug down the hem of my red dress with clammy hands, my nerves making the fabric feel tighter than it is. Pulling out my compact mirror, I carefully reapply my scarlet lipstick, knowing she will have something to say about my appearance. She always does. I snap the mirror shut, the sound piercing in the cab.
“Are you going in, miss?” The taxi driver’s voice startles me and I catch his eyes in the rearview mirror.
“Yes, thank you,” I reply with a forced smile.
I pay him, adding a generous tip for making him wait, and thrust open the car door. Flipping my coat over my head, I step out into the pouring rain and dash toward the restaurant.
I’m not leaving until I secure Beth a new heart. Failure is not an option.
Let’s fucking go.
Chapter two
Dameon
Thick,darklashesflutteragainst my face as Rachael pecks my cheek, and I suppress a shudder. I’ve never understood why women feel compelled to stick those fake lashes to their eyelids. They’re a huge pain. They fall off at the most inconvenient times, and they end up everywhere—on my pillow, in my sheets. I even peeled one off my balls once. I wouldn’t be surprised if the women who wear them become airborne when caught in a strong gust of wind. I can almost hear a cartoonish swoosh in my head whenever they blink.
“I’m so glad you called,” Rachael coos, batting those ridiculously long eyelashes as she slides into the seat opposite me.
“Me too.” I fake a smile.
My gaze drifts out the restaurant window as rain pelts the sidewalk. It’s an unseasonably wet night for August in Manhattan. People dash through the downpour, clutching their raincoats and umbrellas, struggling to stay dry. The rain hasn’t let up in twelve hours, yet nothing brings this city to a standstill. Not even torrential rain. It’s the city that never sleeps for a reason.
The sound of Rachael’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts, invading my brain like a knife piercing my skull.
“I’ve been waiting for you to reach out. I knew we would get back together eventually.” She places her hand on top of mine.
Fuck’s sake.
This woman is delusional if she thinks we’re getting back together. Calling her an ex is a stretch and laughable at best. A total of five dates almost eighteen months ago barely counts as dating. It was five nights of mediocre, vanilla sex, nothing more, nothing less. As soon as I realized she was becoming a stage-five clinger, I ended it. I bluntly informed her I wasn’t interested and moved on. Considering she’s been low-level stalking my ass ever since, the message wasn’t received.
The barrage of text messages, emails and phone calls, along with her suddenly appearing at events I was attending, were all red flags of her growing obsession. I should have put a stop to it as soon as I realized what was happening, but her contact wasn’t consistent enough to make me feel concerned. It was more annoying than anything else, like a mosquito buzzing around my head in the dead of night. I ignored her futile attempts at getting in touch, thinking she would eventually get the hint. Obviously not.
It’s time to put an end to it, once and for all. I slide my hand out from under hers and meet her gaze. I can see in her eyes that she knows what’s coming. In an attempt to delay the inevitable, she dives into a spiel about some high-society gossip.
Like I give a fuck.
Expelling a deep breath, I redirect my gaze to the window. Her relentless monologue is testing my patience. At this point, I’m not even registering her words. She can’t possibly like me for who I am; she doesn’t even know me. That’s what pisses me off the most. It’s my name and money she’s after. A wealthy socialite in search of a perfect marriage match with a billionaire media mogul. Marrying for status and power is her sole purpose in life. I need to be more careful where I stick my dick in future.
Running a frustrated hand down my face, I swirl the scotch in my glass, ready for this dinner to be over. “Listen, Rachael, we need to talk,” I say, interrupting her incessant chatter.
