“You’re too handsome to be alone,” my six-year-old daughter announced in the middle of the executive hallway, staring straight at the coldest billionaire in Manhattan.5 005

The annual agency gala was the kind of Manhattan event that required a second mortgage to attend and a therapist to recover from. Held at the Pierre Hotel, it was a glittering sea of champagne, forced laughter, and silent judgments.

I wore a dark emerald gown that had maxed out my credit card. It was armor. Since the boardroom incident, Marcus had been waging a cold war against me. Briefs were delayed, approvals were stalled, and the air around my cubicles felt toxic.

I stood near an ice sculpture that vaguely resembled our company logo, sipping sparkling water and praying for a socially acceptable time to leave.

"You look like you're plotting a murder."

I turned to find Adrian Kane standing beside me. He wore a tuxedo with the effortless grace of someone born to wear it. The stark black and white made his gray-blue eyes piercingly bright.

"Just calculating how long I have to stay before I can go home to my daughter and a very large pizza," I admitted.

He chuckled, a low, genuine sound that sent a strange flutter through my chest. "Give it another thirty minutes. Any sooner and Marcus will tell everyone you fled in disgrace."

I glanced across the ballroom. Marcus was holding court by the bar, pointedly ignoring me but occasionally shooting venomous looks in our direction.

"He's been starting rumors," I said quietly, the champagne finally loosening my tongue. "About you and me."

Adrian didn't flinch. "I know."

"You know? And you aren't doing anything about it?"

"If I address it, I legitimize it," he said, turning his body slightly to shield me from the room's direct line of sight. "People talk. They see a single mother getting a sudden spotlight, and their mediocrity demands an explanation that doesn't involve your talent."

His words hit me like a physical blow. The absolute certainty in his voice.

"You told me once that you knew my husband," I said, changing the subject before I did something foolish, like cry. "In my office. You said you were doing it because I was Ethan's widow. How did you know him?"

The music swelled, a jazz quartet playing something slow and melancholic. Adrian looked down at his glass.

"Before I was a CEO, I was trying to save a failing family real estate firm. I hired a photographer to shoot a dilapidated warehouse we were trying to sell. He was a kid, fresh out of art school. He spent four hours waiting for the exact right light to hit the broken windows." Adrian looked up, meeting my gaze. "That kid was Ethan. The photos he took made the building look like a cathedral. It sold for double our asking price. He saved my company. And he refused to take a bonus."

Tears pricked my eyes. That sounded exactly like Ethan. Stubborn, brilliant, and hopelessly romantic about his art.

"He never mentioned you," I whispered.

"We lost touch. I went corporate; he went to travel the world. When I saw your file on my desk two years ago, I recognized his last name. I've been watching your career ever since."