Chapter 3

I didn't remember standing up. One second, I'm gripping the edge of the bar, empty glass in my hand, and the next, I'm stumbling across the ballroom floor with my heels clicking on the marbled floor, heading straight for him like an enraged bull.

"Rhys Calloway," I yelled his name. He didn't even turn around at first. Like my voice isn't worth the effort.

"Don't you dare ignore me." My

words come out looser than I wanted them to, courtesy of the wine, doing exactly what wine does, stripping away every ounce of the composure I walked in here with. "You know exactly who I am."

He turned around then, slowly and unbothered, like I'm a mild inconvenience interrupting his evening. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

I scoffed, holding back a stunned, humorless laugh. "Have we met? You bought my father's company for scraps while he was still rotting in a cell for crimes he didn't commit. You built half of what you own on the bones of everything my family lost. And you're asking if we've met?" I seethe, inching closer with my fingers pointed at his face.

Conversations around us started dying out one by one, and I could feel the attention shifting our way, with phones lifting, but I don't care anymore, not with twenty-eight days ticking down and my brother's heart failing in a hospital bed while this man stands in front of me in a suit worth more than what I've made in the last five years combined.

"You destroyed us," I fumed, my voice cracking now, loud enough that it carried across the now quiet hall. "You took everything. My father died in that cell because of men like you circling like vultures, and you just stood there and profited off it, and now my little brother is lying in a hospital because I can't afford to save him, and you're standing here in your five-thousand-dollar suit acting like you don't even know my name."

Something flickered across his face, there and gone so fast I almost thought I imagined it. Then his jaw sets, and he simply turned and walked away.

Walked away. Like I'm nothing. Like I haven't just handed him every ugly piece of the last five years, and he can't even be bothered to respond.

"Don't you dare walk away from me!" I screamed, going after him, but it was too fast, and my heels were unsteady beneath me. The next thing I knew, my ankle caught wrong on the hem of my own dress, and the floor rushed up before I could stop it.

I landed hard on my palms and knees in front of half the city's elite, gasping, humiliation crashing over me in a wave so total I could barely breathe through it.

He turned around at the sound of my fall. For one second, I thought he might actually help me up.

But instead, he looked down at me. Cold and detached, like I'm something unfortunate that fell in his path.

That's when the tears come, hot and furious, and I didn't even try to stop them.

"My brother is dying," I cried, not caring anymore who hears it, not caring about the phones or the whispers or the way my voice broke apart on every word. "He's seven years old, and he's dying, and I have twenty-eight days to find money I don't have, and you did this. You and men like you did this to my family, and none of you even care."

Firm hands closed around my arms before I could say anything else. It was security, two of them, pulling me up off the floor while I let them, not even fighting it, my whole body had gone limp with the kind of shame that doesn't leave room for resistance.

I let them walk me toward the exit, head bowed, eyes not leaving the marbled floor, and whispers trailing behind me like smoke.

I don't even remember the car ride home or entering my apartment. Everything was a blur of events, and the alcohol kicked in, and I collapsed on my bed.

The next morning, I woke up to a splitting headache behind my eyes and sunlight stabbing through the curtains I didn't remember closing.

I groaned, placing my palms over my eyes to block the harsh rays.

Just then, my phone started buzzing before I've even opened my eyes properly, one notification stacking on top of another so fast the screen barely kept up.

I leaned on my elbow reluctantly, squinting at it for a few minutes to get what it was all about.

A loud gasp tore out of my throat as I stared at my screen. My stomach dropped somewhere around the third headline.

HART HEIRESS MELTDOWN AT ASHWORTH GALA.

CALLOWAY TO BLAME FOR HART FAMILY'S DISGRACE?

WATCH: DISGRACED SOCIALITE CONFRONTS BILLIONAIRE, COLLAPSES IN TEARS.

T-there's even a video. Of course, there's a video.

I scrambled to grab my phone from the bedside table, clicked on the closest notification panel and I watched four seconds of myself stumbling toward him, mascara already smudged, before slamming the phone face down on the mattress like that'll undo it.

"Oh, that's great," I muttered to the empty room, to nobody, my voice coming out hoarse and pathetic.

"That's just fantastic, Aurelia. Really smart and dignified. Nothing screams take me seriously like sobbing on a marble floor in front of every camera in the city."

I sit up quickly and immediately regret it, pressing the palm of my hand against my temple like that'll stop the room from spinning.

"In my defense," I muttered, to absolutely no one, not expecting the room to answer. "he deserved it."

I picked the phone back up despite myself, morbid curiosity winning out over self-preservation, and started scrolling through comments I already knew were going to hurt.

And they do. Some of them were almost funny in how vicious they managed to be, and for one unhinged second, I actually laughed, a horrible, cracked sound that died in my throat almost as fast as it started.

"Great. Not only am I dirt poor, but now I'm also the city's favorite punchline." I flopped back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling.

"Congratulations, Aurelia. You've officially hit rock bottom and found a shovel."

I lie there running through every excuse I could give if anyone actually asked me to explain myself, even though nobody's going to ask.

Nobody cares enough to ask; everyone's already decided exactly what kind of pathetic story I am.

Twenty-seven days left, and I've probably burned every last bridge that had even the faintest chance of leading somewhere useful.

A notification pinged on my phone, stopping my slightly panicked thoughts cold.

I reached for my phone again, before I read the headline once.

Then again, blinking at my screen, so certain I've misread it, and that the hangover was doing something strange to my vision.

But it wasn't. It was real. My blood turned to ice in my veins.

RHYS CALLOWAY PUBLICLY DECLARES ENGAGEMENT TO AURELIA HART.