ONE
RHEA
This dress.
Clingy. Strapless. Secondhand. Cleavage spilling out in a way that says, please objectify me, while I smile like I don't notice.
The shoes hate me. And the only real upside to this whole getup? No bra required.
“Champagne?” A waiter glides past with a silver tray.
“No, thank you,” I murmur, already clutching a glass I don’t want. It was handed to me the moment I walked in, like an accessory required for entry.
Around me, the ballroom buzzes—laughter too loud, cologne too rich, heels too high.
A group of women huddle near the ice sculpture, hands glittering with cocktail rings, whispering like it’s part of the dress code.
The Paper & Pixel Foundation is funding six rural library projects this year, and ours made the finalist list. They’re even paying my way to attend. So I let my best friend zip me into a dress that doesn’t belong to me and paint a little color onto my lips. Just for one night.
Laney suggested I bring someone. Anyone. She even offered her husband, with a wink. “Or I could tag along. We could even pose as a couple.”.
“Thanks, but no thanks.” I’ve not been in a relationship since junior year of college. And I’m not going anywhere with a fake date. Man or woman.
I figure, how hard could this be, anyway? Get through the event, get back to my room, bury myself in a book, and catch my flight back home by 6:00 a.m.
I sip the champagne, hoping to calm my nerves. Soften the edges. It’s dry. Like this whole evening.
Across the ballroom, Spencer Devereaux stands near the bar—tall, devastatingly handsome, and perfectly at ease in a charcoal tux.
He’s old-money East Coast, but his billions weren’t inherited. They were built—luxury real estate, private equity, and just enough tech holdings to keep Forbes guessing.
He’s the founder of the Paper & Pixel Foundation and the man everyone in this room seems to be orbiting. The foundation isn’t his job—it’s his passion project. A love letter to the power of stories. He’s a voracious reader, rumored to have entire walls of his Manhattan penthouse lined with first editions.
“He’s richer than God,” a woman murmurs beside me, smooth as satin and just as cold. Her hair is perfect, her smile wry as she adds, “But he only answers to himself.”
She’s older than me. Effortlessly elegant. Clearly enjoying my discomfort.
“I’ve heard he doesn’t date,” she goes on, eyes flicking toward the bar. “Not unless there’s a merger involved.”
Before I can reply—or decide whether I want to—she steps closer, fingers brushingthe back of my dress.
“Sweetie,” she says, all faux affection. “Your tag’s sticking out.”
And just like that, she glides away on stilettos that cost more than my flight.
A burst of laughter breaks through the music, and everyone turns.
Spencer Devereaux.
Billionaire. Book lover. The reason I’m here tonight—and the man every woman in this room seems to be orbiting.
He turns his head in my direction, and for a moment, I assume he’s looking at someone behind me.
But then, I realize, he’s looking at me. Directly at me. Eyes as brown as coffee.
And I can’t seem to look away.
My throat tightens. I swallow. Hard.
