The dress cost eleven thousand dollars, and Julian Thorne notices. I watch his champagne glass tilt in his hand—not enough to spill, but enough to see the tremor. He's standing near the auction table at Manhattan's Ashford Foundation Gala, the kind of charity event where the waitstaff earn more per hour than I used to make in a week. Where I used to make in a week, back when Julian knew me. Back when I was nobody. He's broader now, five years adding muscle to shoulders that were always lean. The tuxedo is custom—Brioni, probably—and his dark hair is shorter than he wore it in college, swept back in that careless way that costs two hundred dollars to achieve. But it's his mouth I remember. The corner that lifts when he's about to lie. It's lifting now. "Sienna Cross," he says, and my name in his voice feels like a hand around my throat. "I didn't know you—" "Ran in these circles?" I finish, letting my smile cut. "I didn't. But BuildCorp's IPO changed a lot of things." His jaw tightens. BuildCorp is mine—the tech startup I clawed into existence with code I wrote in a basement apartment while waitressing double shifts. The same company that went public six months ago and made me wealthy enough to buy a ticket to this gala. Wealthy enough to stand in front of Julian Thorne wearing Tom Ford and watch him realize exactly who I became after he left. "You look—" He stops. Starts again. "It's good to see you." "Is it?" The question hangs between us, sharp enough to draw blood. Around us, Manhattan's elite sip champagne and pretend not to watch. I can feel their eyes, the whispers starting to ripple. Julian steps closer. Close enough that I smell his cologne—different from what he wore before, something darker. "Can we talk? Privately?" I should say no. I should walk away from the man who disappeared the night I told him I was pregnant, whose mother handed me a check and a plane ticket and told me he'd already moved on to someone suitable. Instead, I follow him toward the coat-check hallway.