PROLOGUE
Iris
TEN YEARS AGO
The Friday night lull hits like clockwork. It’s almost 2 a.m.
That soft ten-minute dip between the dinner-drunk professionals and the rowdy ones who’ll stumble in next is here.
I finish rinsing the shaker, slide the last empty coupe glass onto the drying rack, and press my palms to the cool wooden counter.
My feet ache like hell. Double shift.Again.
But all I can think about is the text thread lighting up my screen in the back pocket of my apron.
Levi: Are you surviving?
Me: Barely. I’ve lost sensation in both calves.
Levi: My poor Iris. I’ll rub those feet for you for the price of lemon blueberry pancakes.
Me: Bold of you to presume that you’re staying over.
Levi: Can’t I?
Me: Don’t make it weird, Mr. Astor!
Levi: Well… still love you. Even though I’m being deprived of sustenance.
Me: You better.
Levi: I meant what I said btw. You and me. That little apartment in Vancouver. Just a few more months.
I don’t reply right away. Mostly because if I do, I’ll cry again. The future feels so bright lately, it’s almost terrifying.
Stanford MBA by day, barback by night.
It’s been a hard couple years. But with Levi—God—with Levi, it felt worth it.
He believes in me like I’m capable of anything. Like I’m more than just the scholarship girl with a bartending side hustle and a family that cares more for my siblings than me.
I’m not a black sheep or anything. But both my older siblings are achieving things I could never dream of. And I’ve never been invited to be a part of that blinding success—let alone outshine them.
I pull my phone out again and type back quickly.
Me: First, it’s a fucking penthouse and not little even by YOUR spoiled ass standards. Second, I MIGHT love you more. It’s still debatable.
I’m smiling when I tuck the phone away. Still smiling when I start wiping down the counter.
That’s when I see her.
An older woman, impeccably dressed, wiping my smile right off my face. She’s wearing a silk blouse, gold accessories that don’t look plated, and that kind of smooth grey hair that says‘my blowout costs more than your rent.’She’s got this slow, elegant poise—like she expects me to know her favorite drink just by her gaze. But she looks completely out of place here.
She doesn’t speak right away. Just eyes me—up and down.
There’s something vaguely familiar about her.
A second figure steps up beside her. Tall, stern, slightly jowled. Expensive coat. And a sharp, appraising gaze that lands on me like a gavel.
