Chapter 1

My phone vibrated against the marble countertop, Ryan's name flashing across the screen. I smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear as I answered.

"Victoria!" His voice was panicked, breathless. "I need you—there's been an accident at the Hills house. Please, I—" The call cut off abruptly.

My heart plummeted. Without hesitation, I grabbed my keys and raced to my modest Audi convertible—modest by Sterling standards, but still the most expensive thing I'd allowed myself in this carefully constructed ordinary life. The engine roared as I sped through the Los Angeles streets, my mind racing with terrible possibilities.

Ryan had been at a networking party at his friend Derek's Hollywood Hills mansion. What could have happened? The five years we'd spent together flashed through my mind—the quiet dinners I'd cooked in our apartment, the gallery openings where I'd supported his fledgling interior design career, the nights I'd held him when deals fell through. I'd been there for everything, believing with my whole heart that we were building something real.

I screeched to a halt outside the sprawling modern house, its glass walls glowing against the darkening sky. The valet gave me a puzzled look as I threw him my keys and rushed inside without waiting for a ticket.

"Ryan?" I called out, pushing through clusters of well-dressed guests who barely glanced my way. The house was intact. No ambulances, no commotion—just the steady thrum of conversation and laughter.

Then I saw him, standing in the center of the living room with a champagne flute in hand, completely unharmed. Relief washed over me for one beautiful second before I noticed the smirk spreading across his face. His friends Derek and Jason flanked him, their expressions mirroring his amusement.

"Well, well," Ryan drawled, "look who came running."

Derek snickered. "Told you she'd be here in under fifteen minutes. Pay up, Jason."

The realization hit me like ice water. There was no emergency. No accident. Just a bet. A prank.

"You should see your face right now," Ryan laughed, his eyes—the same eyes I'd gazed into countless times—now gleaming with cruel amusement. "So serious! Did you think I was dying or something?"

The room seemed to tilt slightly. Around us, people had begun to notice, some openly staring, others hiding smiles behind their drinks. I felt the heat of humiliation creep up my neck.

"I was worried about you," I said quietly, hating how small my voice sounded.

"Aww, she was worried," Jason mocked, and the circle of onlookers widened, feeding on my embarrassment.

Ryan slung an arm around my shoulders, his touch no longer comforting but possessive, performative. "That's my Victoria. Always so dependable."

The way he said it—not with appreciation but with the faintest trace of contempt—made something cold settle in my stomach. I forced a smile, years of Sterling training in social graces kicking in automatically. Never show weakness. Never let them see you bleed.

"Glad you're okay," I said evenly, extracting myself from his grip. "I need some air."

I moved through the crowd with my chin high, ignoring the whispers that followed. Outside on the terrace, I gulped in the night air, trying to steady myself. Five years. Five years of loving him, supporting him, believing in us. And he'd turned me into a punchline for his friends' amusement.

After composing myself, I slipped back inside, determined to find Ryan and have a real conversation about what had just happened. The party had grown louder, more crowded. I searched the main rooms before noticing a partially closed door leading to what appeared to be a study. Ryan's voice drifted out, and I moved toward it, relieved to have found him.

"—next month, if everything goes according to plan." His voice was clear, excited.

I paused at the threshold, my hand on the doorknob. Through the crack, I could see Ryan with Derek and two other men I recognized from his social circle.

"Charlotte Anderson, man. Can you believe it?" Ryan was saying, his face animated in a way I rarely saw anymore. "Her family practically owns half of Beverly Hills."

"And what about Victoria?" one of the men asked. "The girlfriend of what—five years?"

Ryan waved his hand dismissively. "Victoria was a warm-up. Good for now, but not exactly future material. Charlotte is the real deal."

The room seemed to drop away beneath my feet. Charlotte Anderson. Engagement. Next month. The words echoed in my head, disconnected and yet horrifyingly clear.

I backed away from the door silently, my heart hammering against my ribs. The party continued around me, a surreal blur of faces and noise. I found myself in the rose garden, the night air cool against my burning cheeks. I waited there, gathering the shattered pieces of my composure, until I saw Ryan emerge onto the patio alone.

I stepped into his path. "We need to talk."

He looked surprised, then annoyed. "Now? I'm kind of in the middle of something."

"What exactly are we doing, Ryan?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt. "Where is this relationship going?"

His expression shifted to something I'd never seen before—a mixture of pity and impatience. "Come on, Victoria. Let's be realistic here. We're having fun, but you've always known we're from different worlds."

"Different worlds," I repeated, the irony burning in my throat.

"Look, you're great, but there are certain... expectations in my career. Connections that matter." He glanced back toward the party, clearly eager to return. "You understand, right?"

Before I could respond, a woman's voice called his name. "Ryan, darling! The Hendersons want to discuss the Malibu project!"

"Be right there!" he called back, then turned to me with a quick, dismissive smile. "We'll talk later, okay?"

As he walked away, rejoining his guests without a backward glance, something crystallized inside me. The pain was still there, raw and pulsing, but beneath it was something else—a cold, clear certainty.

Ryan Mitchell had no idea who I really was. But he was about to find out.