Chapter One
SUTTON
The business card is burning in my hand. Not literally, but it feels like it’s searing into my skin.
I close my fist around it, then shove it deep into my pocket as if that might make it disappear.
It doesn't.
I can still feel it there—a small rectangle of possibility that weighs more than it should.
I go to work on autopilot. My shift passes in a blur of orders and fake smiles.
"You okay?" Jennifer asks during a rare quiet moment.
"Fine," I lie.
She doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push.
I pocket a measly three-dollar tip from table seven and head to the kitchen to grab another order.
One hundred thousand dollars.
The number keeps circling in my brain like a vulture waiting for something to die. Maybe it's waiting for my relationship with Declan to collapse under the weight of reality, finally.
Because that's what the money proves, isn't it? That I'm exactly what I've always feared—a liability. A distraction. The girl who doesn't belong in his world and never will.
His father wouldn't be offering me this much money if he didn't see me as a genuine threat to Declan's future. And the sick thing is, he's probably right.
I grab the tray of food for table twelve and plaster on my customer-service smile. The couple barely acknowledges me as I set down their plates.
One hundred thousand dollars could change everything.
All night, I keep doing the math. I owe about twenty thousand in student loans. Scholarships helped, but not enough. I could pay off everything. No more monthly payments eating into whatever meager salary I manage to scrape together after graduation.
That would leave eighty thousand.
I could actually afford a decent apartment in Boston. Something in a safe neighborhood where I don't have to worry about my car getting broken into. Maybe even save for a down payment on a house eventually.
I could stop working these soul-crushing shifts. Stop smiling at people who treat me like I'm invisible. Stop calculating every single purchase down to the penny.
"Excuse me!"
The sharp voice cuts through my thoughts—table nine. A middle-aged man in an expensive suit is waving at me like I'm a dog that needs to heel.
I walk over, my jaw already clenching. "Yes, sir?"
"This steak is overcooked. I ordered medium-rare." He pushes the plate toward me with obvious disgust.
I look at the steak. It's perfectly medium-rare. Pink in the center, just a hint of red.
"I can have the kitchen prepare another for you," I offer, even though I know it's fine.
"You think I have time to wait for another steak? Do you know who I am?"
No, and I don't care.
I grit my teeth. How many times have I had to swallow a smartass retort because I need the job?
