When I turned eighteen, I left Boston behind. Columbia had accepted me—Harvard had too, of course—but I couldn't stomach being that close to them.
I wanted true freedom, and in New York, I found it.
College was...heaven.
I studied hard, but I partied harder. I joined a sorority, made friends who were gorgeous, polished, connected, and untouchable. Girls just like me. We shared coke, drank champagne out of red Solo cups, wore designer dresses to dive bars, and laughed like we owned the world.
Those four years were the freest, brightest, wildest years of my life.
Then I had to return home.
Well, I didn't have to, but I already had a job lined up and waiting for me.
My father's best friend, Andrew Abbott, offered me a positionatAbbott & Grey PR.Not an entry-level assistant job like most fresh graduates—no, I started as aSenior Account Executive.Nepotism? Obviously. But who gives a fuck? That's how you make it in today's world.
A salary in the high six-figures, a top-floor office overlooking the city, a company car, and a corporate credit card. Every weekend, there were invitations to every exclusive restaurant, every launch party, every industry gala that mattered.
People envied me—and they should have.
It was opulence. It was power. It was fucking perfect.
For five years, my life was perfect, everything I had ever wanted.
But the best part? It was the catch-up lunches with my mother. Sitting across from her at five-star, impossible-to-get-a-table, coat-required places, and casually rattling off updates about my career while swirling my white wine in a crystal goblet.
She'd sip her red, perfectly composed, while I told her about my job, my office, my clients, the elite events I was managing. I could see the jealousy simmering beneath her perfect skin. I had everything she wanted—power, youth, beauty.
My mother had to spread her legs to get what I got through hard work and determination.
She tried to keep me small with snide remarks and rolled eyes, with passive-aggressive digs about my makeup and my weight. It didn't matter, because no matter how she clawed or hissed, she would never reach what I'd already surpassed.
And for that, I pitied her. She wasn't a rival, not even a has-been.
Never was, never would be.
Then, that one night a year ago at a party I shouldn't have gone to. Too many drinks, too much coke, and too turned on by the man whispering in my ear to think straight.
I ruined it all.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Elise
Her name was Sierra. She was seventeen years old and trying to get home from a concert at the Garden when my Porsche drifted into the intersection and hit her head-on.
I had been distracted.
Distracted by the man in my ear, whispering all the filthy things he wanted to do to me once we got back to his penthouse. Distracted by his hand sliding up my thigh, the feel of his fingers like fire on bare skin, trailing up to where I wanted him most. Distracted by the coke he held under my nose at the last red light while he was whispering in my ear that the next line he took would be off my tits.
We were grinning like we were invincible, like nothing could touch us. Until that point, nothing had.
But it was too much—too much cocaine, too much vodka, too much pleasure.
Usually, I could manage it as my tolerance had only grown over the years. A couple of drinks, a bump or two to balance it out, and I was good to go. I could glide through the chaos with ease, landing pitches like a pro, and dominate brand meetings like a seasoned veteran.
But that night? That night was different.
It had started at an exclusive wellness brand launch party. The brand had bent over backward to tell me how integral I was to their success. It was one of those invite-only rooftop parties, and my name, of course, was on the list, as were my friends.They had practically worshipped me for scoring them an invite, and I felt like a fucking God.
