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“None on mine either.” If there were a lie detector anywhere, that statement would have gotten a harshbuzzfrom it. Because there had ever only been one girl. “I invited Mirabella though.”
Damian nodded. “She’s nice.”
“Yeah. Nice.” I laughed. Our hookups had nothing to do with her personality. Damian knew that. What Mirabella had in spades was the intoxicating power of stirring up zero emotion. She wasn’t someone I dreamt about nightly, unlike a different brunette I wanted to stop thinking about. “Let’s fucking rock this fundraiser.”
We left my bedroom, both wishing Zero a pleasant nap. I wouldn’t torture him with the party, which would only make him skittish. Our expensive dress shoes tapped softly against the tile floors. Trace waited in the foyer, looking at his phone.
“There you girls are,” he said, pocketing his phone. “We ready now?”
“Yes, dad.” I grinned over at him, appreciating his black suit and tie. We all wore the same designer—Gucci—but slightly different takes. The lapels of my suit, for instance, had a subtle matte black check that you could see only when the light hit it right. A small detail, but one that delighted me.
My brothers and I took the private elevator to the ground floor. Our Escalade, Harry behind the wheel, awaited us at the curb, hazard lights flashing. We loaded up and headed toward midtown. The fundraiser was one of two we held annually for our charity organization. Everything we raised went to the kids. But we needed more space. More capacity to help. Which was why the new building was so important.
I didn’t believe for a second that the fundraiser would convince anyone over in Margulis Land. If they even showed up. After all, Cora herself had promised there would be no problem with the vote. And here we were.
We arrived at the Manhattan Manor to find the party in full swing. A string quartet had already started their set list, backed by the huge windows overlooking the theater district. Huge explosions of fresh floral bouquets lined the entryway, with matching centerpieces in the middle of every table in the venue. Along one brick-exposed wall, the artwork of our featured students was on prominent display. Immediately upon entering, Francis waved us down.
“The men of the hour!” His smile was a mile wide. His own Gucci suit, which the company had paid for as a work expense, shimmered a deep purple under the moody lighting. What Francis wanted, Francis got. “Things are progressing wonderfully.” He lifted his wine glass. “I’ve personally tested all the appetizers, and they are to die for.”
“What’s the best one?” Damian asked.
“The curry balls,” Francis gushed. “You have to try them.”
While Damian and Francis chatted about the food and we made our way into the thick of the soiree, I scanned the crowd. I saw plenty of familiar faces—lots of waving and nodding as my gaze landed on each new attendee. But every time my gaze landed on one of our kids, my cheeks hurt from how hard I smiled.
That was what made us different. What the “rest of them” didn’t like about us.
We invited the kids to the soirees. We showed them this slice of life. We helped them in every fucking way we could.
But I didn’t see Cora.
I couldn’t tell if I was relieved or disappointed.
“Hey there, stud.” A soft voice at my ear set my muscles tightening. A hand snaked down to my ass, and from the squeeze alone I could tell it was Mirabella.
“Hey there.” I offered my cheek for her to kiss, barely able to look her way. As my perpetual plus one, she attended all our galas. But fuck, I didn’t want her here.
“Grab me a pinot?” she asked, trademark puffy lips tugged down into a pout.
“Give me a minute,” I said, wrapping my arm around her waist. But the intimate touch was more performative than anything. She was elegantly thin, and depending when the runway events were, sometimes lived only on alcohol and celery. I couldn’t figure out why I wanted her to get back into the Uber she’d come in. “I’ve gotta go check on the kids.”
“You’re such a nice rich guy,” she said with a giggle.
“I try.” I detached myself from her. Trace and Damian had become engrossed in conversation with other attendees. Francis had disappeared. I headed over to the kids area, where our event coordinator lingered, overseeing the kid experience. It was mostly teens here, though some recently aged-out participants in our academic booster program had come as well.Foster the Futurehelped kids excel in school, no matter the level, and prepared them for the future via apprenticeship programs and unique grant and affordable housing opportunities. I made the rounds, saying hello to everyone, asking them what they thought. They knew who I was, but only as they would an inattentive celebrity godfather. One of the girls even asked for my autograph, which I gladly gave.
I happened to look up in the middle of a conversation with an older boy named Derick about his plans to go into social work. I don’t know what made me turn toward the coat check, but there she was. Cora. Sliding a golden bolero jacket off her shoulders to reveal a strappy black gown beneath.
Time seized and shuddered to a stop. Across the mahogany floors, bathed in natural light and violin music, Cora was the only thing I could see or focus on. Her glossy dark hair had been freed from the top knot she’d worn the last time I saw her. It cascaded over her shoulders in soft, intentional, perfectly arranged waves. She was stunning, the type of beauty that could make my stomach drop even when I was determined to hate her. Even after eight years of avoiding her.
Worse yet, from the looks of it, she’d come alone.
She must have heard my thoughts, felt my attention, because she turned to look my way, revealing her smoky eyes and perfect lips. Her green gaze snapped to mine, and we were suspended there, paralyzed by the connection, floating through space as the entire world around us vaulted away and faded into obscurity. I couldn’t even say how long we were trapped there. Two seconds? An hour?
Whatever it was, it was too much. I yanked my attention from her, focusing on Derick again. We talked about his potential paths, traded ideas, and I expressed my confidence he would succeed. Then it was time for a trip to the bar. Mirabella wanted her pinot, but now I needed some whiskey. I headed for the mirrored bar, letting the sights and sounds of the fundraiser sink into me. The place was alive with energy, thrumming with conversation and clinking glasses. Every type of attendee mingled beneath the vaulted ceilings—angel investors, bigwigs, CEOs of every type of business you could imagine. And though Allan Margulis and his inner circle hated us, plenty of people didn’t. Those were the people we counted on for events like these.
Yet every pulse of my heart wanted me to look for Cora. I forced myself to focus on the task at hand. Order whiskey and wine. Chat casually with whoever was beside me.Do not look around. Do not look for Cora.
I made it back to Mirabella with my imaginary blinders on. We circulated, sipping our drinks, accepting appetizers, while my heart thumped.
