Bridgett

The crystal flute in Eliza Solomon's hand was going to shatter.

She could feel the hairline fractures in the glass pressing against her palm, a perfect mirror of the way her chest felt—tight, brittle, and one breath away from exploding.

"He looks happy, doesn't he?"

The voice came from her left. A socialite in emerald silk, someone Eliza used to know before the Solomon empire crumbled, before she became the pitiful ward of the Hyde family. They weren't just her guardians; they were the iron-fisted trustees of the Solomon estate, a vast fortune she couldn't touch until she turned twenty-five, or married. Anson, as the primary trustee, controlled every dollar.

Eliza didn't answer. She couldn't. Her throat had closed up somewhere between the appetizer course and the moment Anson Hyde walked into the ballroom with Claudine Chapman on his arm.

Anson looked more than happy. He looked victorious.

He stood in the center of the room, under the massive chandelier that cost more than Eliza's entire college tuition. His hand rested on the small of Claudine's back, his fingers splayed possessively against the white fabric of her dress. He leaned down, whispering something into her ear that made Claudine throw her head back and laugh.

The sound was sharp. It cut through the heavy orchestral music and lodged itself directly behind Eliza's ribs.

It was the same laugh Claudine used when she made fun of Eliza's second-hand shoes.

"Excuse me," a waiter muttered, bumping into Eliza's shoulder with a heavy tray.

Champagne sloshed over the rim of her glass, soaking into the bodice of her grey dress. It was cold and sticky.

The waiter didn't apologize. He glanced at her, recognized her as the charity case, and curled his lip in a sneer before moving on to serve the guests who actually mattered.

Eliza's stomach cramped. The humiliation was a physical weight, pressing down on her shoulders until her knees felt weak. She needed air. She needed to not be here, watching the boy who held the keys to her gilded cage announce his engagement to the girl who had made that cage a living hell. The promise to "protect her" had always been a lie. It was a promise to possess her.

She turned and walked toward the library, keeping her head down.

The library was dark, smelling of old paper and lemon polish. It was the only room in the Hyde estate where Eliza had ever felt safe. She closed the heavy oak door behind her and leaned her forehead against the wood, gasping for air. Her lungs burned.

The door handle turned under her grip.

Eliza jumped back, wiping frantically at her eyes. She expected Anson. She expected him to come in here and tell her to stop making a scene, to smile for the cameras, to be grateful for the roof over her head.

But the figure that filled the doorway wasn't Anson.

It was a wall of a man in a black tuxedo that seemed to absorb the dim light of the room. He was taller than Anson, broader, with a stillness about him that made the air in the library drop ten degrees.

Dallas Koch.

Eliza's breath hitched. Why was he here? The CEO of Koch Industries, the most powerful man in the city, didn't hide in libraries. He didn't even look at people like Eliza.

He stood there, his hand still on the brass knob, his dark eyes scanning her face. He took in the champagne stain on her dress, the red blotches on her cheeks, the way her hands were shaking so hard the crystal flute was rattling.

For a second, the stoic mask he wore—the one that made him look like a statue carved from granite—cracked. A muscle in his jaw ticked.

He stepped inside and closed the door, sealing out the noise of the party.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. It was white silk, folded into a perfect square. He held it out to her without a word.

Eliza stared at it. "I... I'm fine."

"You are not fine," Dallas said. His voice was a low rumble, vibrating in the quiet room. "Take it."

Eliza reached out. Her fingers brushed against his palm as she took the silk. A jolt of static electricity snapped between them, sharp and surprising. She flinched, but he didn't move.

The handkerchief smelled of sandalwood and something clean, like rain on pavement. It smelled expensive. It smelled like stability.

From the hallway, Anson's voice drifted through the thick wood of the door. He was making a toast.

"...to my beautiful fiancée, Claudine..."

The words were like a physical blow to the back of Eliza's knees. Her legs gave out.

She didn't hit the floor.

Dallas moved with a speed that shouldn't have been possible for a man of his size. One moment he was standing three feet away, and the next, his arm was around her waist, catching her.

His grip was firm. Solid. He held her up effortlessly, his arm like a steel bar against her spine.