Chapter 1

Genevieve

The email arrived at 9:02 AM. No subject line, just a calendar invite for 2:00 PM and a brief note: "Regarding your future. Please be prompt."

It was signed "Arthur," but in my head, he had never been Arthur. He was Uncle. He was the man who had taught me how to ride a bike when my father was drowning in endless board meetings, the one who brought the "good" chocolates to every Sunday dinner, and the only person my father actually trusted with everything, including me.

I figured it was business. My trust fund was hitting a milestone, or perhaps Dad had finally convinced him to talk me into an internship at the firm. I didn't think twice about it. I just grabbed my bag and headed out.

The lobby of the Sterling Building was a grand cathedral of tall glass windows and shiny marble floors, but I walked through it like I owned a key; I had been there numerous times.

"Afternoon, Gen," Elena said, not even looking up from her monitor until I was at her desk. She'd been Arthur's secretary since I was in pigtails.

"Hey, Elena. Is Uncle in?"

She finally looked up, her professional mask slipping into a genuine smile. "He's expecting you. Just finishing a call." She paused, leaning over the mahogany counter to get a better look at me. "Wait, is that new? The hair?"

I tucked a strand behind my ear. "Just a few golden highlights. I needed a change." I was beaming with smiles.

"It suits you," she teased, her eyes wide with excitement. I swayed from side to side to give her a good show. "You look absolutely stunning. Go on in, honey."

I smiled, feeling that familiar warmth of being home away from home. I pushed the heavy oak doors open, expecting the usual greeting—a boisterous "There she is!" or a joke about how I was getting taller every time he saw me.

Instead, there was silence.

Arthur was sitting behind a desk that looked like it cost more than my tuition, and that was saying a lot. He was fifty-four, carrying it with a grace that made him look younger.

His hair was still mostly dark, though the silver at his temples had started to win the battle lately. He was fit due to a dedicated gym life, something my dad couldn't commit to, his tailored suit fitting perfectly across his shoulders. He didn't look up. He was staring at a fountain pen in his hand as if it were a piece of evidence.

"Uncle?" I asked, my voice sounding smaller than I intended.

The silence stretched. It wasn't the comfortable silence of two people who knew each other; it was the heavy silence that precedes a confrontation. I stood there, shifting my weight; the compliments I had received from Elena suddenly felt ridiculous in the shadow of his frown.

He finally looked at me. His eyes weren't warm. They were hard, analytical, and colder than I had ever seen them. He didn't offer a chair. He didn't ask how my classes were going, either.

"Sit down, Genevieve," he said. My full name. Not Gen, or princess, or sweet. Genevieve. I really was in trouble.

I sat. My heart started a slow, rhythmic thud against my ribs. "Did something happen? Is Dad okay?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his top drawer and pulled out an iPad. He slid it across the polished wood of the desk until it tapped against my knuckles.

"Press play," he commanded.

I frowned, my fingers trembling slightly as I hit the center of the screen.

The video was high-definition. It wasn't a grainy cell phone clip; it was clear as day. It was the club. The lights were neon pink and deep violet, piercing through the smoke.

And there I was. On stage. I was moving with a confidence I only felt when I was anonymous, wearing a costume that left nothing to the imagination.

The camera caught the way I laughed as a man tucked a bill into my waistband. I twirled and whined.

I felt the blood drain from my face so fast I thought I might faint. The air in the office suddenly felt non-existent.

"I... Uncle, I can explain," I whispered.

"Can you?" He didn't sound angry. That was the problem. He sounded disappointed. "What is there to explain, Genevieve? You're a performer? You're an artist? Or perhaps you just enjoy the thrill of being a stripper for the night?"

"I needed the money. I wanted to do something on my own, without Dad's—"

"Without your father's 'suffocating' influence?" Arthur finished for me. He leaned back, his chair creaking. "Do you have any idea what Richard would do if he saw this? He wouldn't just be angry. He would be destroyed. He'd cut you off before the video even finished. Every door he's opened for you would slam shut. He'd send you away, somewhere quiet, somewhere where the family name couldn't be dragged through the mud. You'd be a ghost in your own life."

I couldn't speak. My throat turned dry. I looked down at the iPad, at the girl on the screen who looked so happy, and then back at the man who held my entire life in his hands.

But as I looked at him, something shifted.

Arthur wasn't looking at my face anymore. His gaze had dropped. He was looking at my legs, then slowly tracking upward, lingering on the curves the iPad had just highlighted in such vivid detail.

The "Uncle" who used to give me bear hugs and advice was gone. In his place was a man who was appraising me like a piece of high-end real estate he was thinking about buying.

"I haven't shown him," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Not yet."

He rose to his feet. He was a tall man, and when he stood, he seemed to swallow all the light in the room. He walked around the edge of the desk, not stopping until he was inches away from my chair.

I looked up at him, my heart hammering against my teeth, unable to move, unable to breathe, as he loomed over me.