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She flipped the page on her clipboard, her eyes searching back and forth. “Alice? Your name’s Alice what?”

Alex helped her out. “No, my name is Alex. Alex Sinclair.”

“Alice Sinclair…I can’t find you.”

Alex rolled her eyes. “No. It’s Alex… A…L…E…X..”

“Right…Found you.” Her pen ticked the page. “Go in.”

Tom dropped his arm from Alex’s back, tuning his radar to a nearby trio of overly tanned women wearing skirts so short that they’d make a gynecologist nervous. He leaned down, shouting in Alex’s ear. “You good?”

She winced. “I’m fine. Go. Have fun.”

He scampered off, grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing tray. He disappeared under six enthusiastic orange arms.

Alex squeezed past a group of boisterous men and removed her trench. The coat check girl gladly accepted it, handing Alex a small silver button in return. Cute. It matched the Bespoke tailoring theme.

Harry’s club gleamed in polished chrome, glass, and mirrors. Modern and sleek in design, the vibe leaned more towards cool and stark than welcoming and relaxing. A narrow hall gave way to a large room, its outer reaches accessorized with onyx leather banquettes and booths. Servers of both sexes dressed in tailored black shirts and trousers doled out champagne and specialty cocktails. Another wave of staff offered fancy finger foods—mini burgers, crispy squid skewers, and black paper cones filled with fries drizzled with truffle oil. A long bar decorated in gold and black ran the length of the right side of the venue, and the DJ—Tom’s new best friend—rallied the elite crowd of celeb A-listers, models, and hedge funders from a perch high in the far left corner. London’s beautiful people spilled out onto the dance floor; designer mini dresses, and sharp cut suits ruled the night.

Alex limped to the bar and kicked off her right heel, bending down to inspect her foot. An orange blur bounced behind her, hollering in her ear.

“Alllll-ex. You’ll never guess who’s here…Pippa Middleton.” Caprice weaved. “I wonder if her sister’s hot brother-in-law came with. I would’ve asked her, but she’s surrounded by a swarm of Russian money.” She gulped her glass; a cascade of champagne slopped on her heaving breasts.

Alex backed away from the spluttering socialite, but someone blocked her escape.

“There you are.” Olivia smiled down at both Caprice and Alex. “Caprice, darling, Rosamund’s looking for you. Head towards the VIP area; you’ll find her there. Last I saw, she was chatting with Emma Watson.”

Alex’s pulse raced. What did Olivia want now? Her eyes narrowed as she stuffed her foot back into the torture device disguised as her shoe.

“Emma Wa—? I’m so there. Maybe I can bag a Russian billionaire while I’m at it. Thanks, babe.” Caprice toddled off precariously, turning an ankle in the process. Her boozy haze probably numbed any pain.

“Isn’t this a fantastic evening?” Olivia’s eyes danced across the room. “It’s turned out even better than I imagined.”

Alex bit her tongue.

Olivia leaned in and stretched her right arm and fingers across the bar, like a feline unfurling its claws. Alex couldn’t budge. “Rosamund told me something fascinating at dinner.”

“So?”

“The Irish waiter? He was quite the dish.” The brunette chuckled, her breath champagne-soaked. “When I found out you two were friends, I decided to have some fun with him.”

Alex’s eyebrows scrunched.

“I complained about the wine, sent my meal back.” She snickered. “But actually, nothing was wrong. Everything was perfect. And he handled my outrageous requests professionally and patiently. So boring. So I upped the stakes.”

“What?” Alex scowled.

“He didn’t knock over my glass. I did!” She smoothed down her dress. Damage from wine-aggedon? Not a trace.

“I suppose most waiters would just receive a reprimand for being clumsy, but I told you, didn’t I? Our families are well connected. We’re some of Mr. Winston’s most valued customers—and he was mortified to see how upset I was.”

A tightness squeezed Alex’s throat. “What did you do?” Her vision blurred.

“Duuurgh! Do keep up, Alex!” She glanced at her glittery watch. “He’s probably cleaned out his locker by now…”

Alex shoved past Olivia and through the thick throng of partygoers. At the coat check counter, the numbered silver button slipped from her shaking hand, clinking and rolling amidst the Jimmy Choos and Louboutins. She knelt down, her palms padding the floor under the disdainful stares and unpredictable feet of arriving guests.

“Looking for this?” A male voice floated over her shoulder.