I attended my boyfriend's company year-end gala as his guest — and it was the last place I expected trouble to find me. His "best buddy," Stella Vance, leaned into Damian's side and sneered at me with a smile. "Miss Aria, I've heard some interesting things about you." She tilted her head. "Your mother clawed her way up as a mistress, and after you came of age, you continued the family tradition — bouncing from one sugar daddy's bed to the next. Only recently did you manage to snag Damian." She paused, as though savoring the moment, then added sweetly, "Oh, and I'm very close with your plastic surgeon, by the way." She pressed her fingers to her lips in mock horror, cutting a glance at Damian. "Oops. I forgot — women who claw their way up through surgery and seduction hate having their past dragged out. Damian, don't be mad at me, I just can't help being honest." Damian's smile froze on his face. A second ago he'd been bragging to his colleagues about my looks and my so-called "good family background." I looked at Stella Vance more carefully. The longer I stared, the more familiar she seemed. Then it clicked. Wasn't this the woman who'd simultaneously strung along over a dozen high-ranking Mafia bosses — scheduling conflicts and all — until their wives put out a joint hit on her? She'd shown up on her knees outside my family estate, begging for her life. I'd taken pity on her and had the contract lifted. I wonder, I thought, how thrilled those bosses' wives would be to know she was here tonight. I quietly reached into my clutch and switched on my voice recorder. As the next head of the Philadelphia Mafia, I had one rule: run things like a legitimate operation. Evidence first. Always. The moment Stella finished her little speech, every admiring glance that had been directed at Damian curdled into something else. A colleague laughed awkwardly to ease the tension. "You must have the wrong person. Miss Aria comes from serious money — she'd never need to be anyone's mistress." Stella didn't deny it. She only sighed, slowly and deeply. "True. Credit where it's due — her mother was clever. Selling herself to a rich man, becoming his mistress for the money. Not everyone has that kind of forward-thinking." She smiled. "Though, honestly? I wouldn't want that kind of 'old money.' It's tainted." I felt a cold jolt in my chest. She actually dared. If my father — the man who had built an empire just to spoil my mother — ever found out what she'd just said, Stella Vance wouldn't be safe anywhere in Philadelphia. Noticing my expression shift, Stella curled further into Damian's side. "Did I say something wrong again?" she murmured up at him, all soft eyes and helpless shrugs. "I'm sorry, I'm just not as calculating as some people. I say what I think." I bit down on every urge to slap her. I had just issued a directive that the family was not to strike women without cause. While I was distracted, my wine glass tilted. Red wine splashed across Stella's white dress. She shrieked. Her eyes filled with tears on cue. "Sis-in-law — you'd get violent just because I told the truth?" She shook her head in disbelief. "You should be impressed that you pulled it off, honestly. I'm almost jealous of how convincingly you've fooled everyone." Damian's face went cold in an instant. He picked up the napkin from the table and began carefully dabbing at Stella's dress. Then he turned his glare on me. "Stella's always been blunt — she doesn't mean any harm. What the hell is wrong with you?" He pointed at me, jaw tight. "Apologize. Now." I almost laughed. Stella had spent the last ten minutes spreading slander about me, and Damian had stood by without a word. But the second his precious "buddy" got a wine stain, he was ready to go to war. Stella wiped her eyes and pressed her cheek against Damian's shoulder. "It's fine. I probably mistook her for someone else. I was just joking around." I looked at her, my voice flat. "Claims require evidence. I don't have a sense of humor. I don't understand jokes." The words were also for Damian — a quiet reminder. Don't believe things without proof. Damian blinked. His hand, still holding the napkin to Stella's dress, slowly stilled. Stella stiffened almost imperceptibly. She was losing her grip on him. But she recovered fast, her eyes going wide with wounded innocence. "I'm sorry. That's what your surgeon told me. I shouldn't have repeated it without checking." I rested my chin on my hand and studied her. "Which clinic? Which surgeon?" If she named one, it was evidence. I expected her to stumble. Instead, she looked at me with sudden, earnest sincerity. "Sis-in-law, even without surgery, you wouldn't be that bad-looking. There's really no need to go in for touch-ups a dozen times a month." The table went quiet. Colleagues exchanged glances, disgust flickering across their faces. A female colleague sitting beside Stella gave a long, knowing smile. "The world really does belong to women like her — get a little work done, spread your legs, and suddenly you're rich and untouchable." "Not like Stella and me." She gestured between them with false modesty. "We're all natural. We believe in marrying for love."
Damian cared about his image more than anything else. He'd brought me to this gala specifically to show me off. He hadn't anticipated being embarrassed. He knocked back an entire glass of whiskey without looking at anyone. I kept my voice level. "My monthly income is two hundred thousand. Damian's is thirty thousand." I looked at the colleague. "Tell me again — who's the one being kept?" The man with glasses across the table snickered. "Two hundred grand a month? That's quite a 'specialty,' sis-in-law." "Damian's the real winner here," someone else chimed in. "Most men burn through cash dating — he found one where a whole rotation of benefactors fund his lifestyle. Ha!" "Enough." Damian slammed his fist into the glasses-man's face, shattering his frames. I felt nothing. I knew he wasn't defending me. His ego had simply taken a hit. The man with broken glasses clenched his fist, ready to retaliate — but at that precise moment, the emcee's voice boomed from the stage, spotlight swinging to our table. "Next up — table five! We need everyone from table five!" The whole room turned to look. The glasses-man uncurled his fist and swallowed his anger. For now. The game was simple. Each person at the table shared one moment from work that had moved them. The person who told the best story won their choice of a prize. The first few stories were unremarkable. A boss who remembered someone's coffee order. A client who said "thank you" for once. When it was Stella's turn, she slid her eyes to me — a quick, deliberate glance — and smiled. "Last month, I drank too much at a client dinner." Her voice was soft, confessional. "I called Damian at two in the morning." "He was on a business trip, but he came straight back. Looked after me the whole night..." She paused. "Later, I found out his girlfriend had been trying to reach him that same night." Murmurs of approval rippled through the tables. "That's Damian — always puts people first." "Dependable when it counts." The applause swallowed me whole. I sat completely still, as though the chair beneath me had turned to ice. That night, I'd been in a car accident. My phone shattered on impact. The only number I had memorized was Damian's. He answered in one ring, told me he was traveling, and went unreachable. I nearly died that night. After I was discharged, Damian knelt at my hospital bed and beat his own face with his palms, over and over. "Aria, I was only working so hard because I wanted to marry you — I wanted to give you everything. I swear I didn't know it would be that bad." I looked at him now. He wouldn't meet my eyes. His jaw was locked tight. The emcee declared Stella the winner. She was invited to choose a prize. She scanned the table of options and spotted a luxury med-spa VIP card. She gasped in theatrical delight. "Damian ignored his girlfriend for me that night — she's the one who loves going under the knife. Consider this my apology to her!" She laughed. Then she turned, and her gaze found me in the crowd. Her voice climbed two registers. "Actually — she's here! She's at the gala tonight! She's right there!" The spotlight operator followed her pointing finger and flooded me in white light. Voices erupted. "She's had work done? She looks so natural." "That kind of result must cost a fortune." Stella grabbed the microphone from the emcee. "Don't worry about the cost, everyone — she pulls in two hundred thousand a month." She let the smile hang on her face, loaded with implication. A wave of knowing sounds rolled through the room. Men began looking at me the way they'd look at something for sale. I fixed my gaze on Stella, my voice quiet and precise. "Spreading rumors without evidence is dangerous. Some statements carry consequences." She hummed dismissively and pulled out her phone. She held it up so the whole room could see. "I'm not spreading rumors." On screen: a before-and-after photo from a plastic surgery clinic. The "after" image — the successful result — was my face.
Laughter and mockery rolled through the room like a tide. "Worth every penny — even a pig can become a beauty queen! Incredible!" "Which surgeon did this? I need a referral!" I stood up, ready to speak. Damian crossed the room in three strides and slapped me across the face. "Aria!" He seized Stella's phone, his eyes burning with a fury that looked almost like betrayal. "I worked eight years in advertising — I know what an unedited photo looks like! The lighting is consistent. The skin texture matches. You lied to me. This whole time." I didn't answer. I straightened slowly. The desire to explain had died somewhere along the way. What I was quietly calculating instead was simpler: that slap was worth five fingers. His. Stella touched Damian's arm, her voice honeyed. "It's fine. Girls like pretty things. A little surgery is perfectly normal." She tilted her head at me. "Not like us — I barely even moisturize." I looked at Stella's perfectly blended, meticulously applied "no-makeup makeup" and smiled to myself. When I got around to pouring makeup remover on her face, she'd discover exactly what she actually looked like. The emcee announced the next segment — a duet performance. Stella and Damian. I watched their backs as they walked up to the stage, side by side, and let my mind wander. Damian wasn't wrong about the photo. It wasn't retouched. But the "before" and "after" were two different people. What I was truly puzzling over was simpler: how had Stella Vance gotten hold of my university ID photo? I opened a message thread and sent a task to my team. [I want everything on Stella Vance. Thirty minutes.] On stage, Damian dropped to one knee. He sang to Stella, eyes full of something I used to think was reserved for me. "Say you'll marry me today..." Something hollowed out inside my chest. When had the man who once seemed to blaze with light become so dim? I remembered the first time I'd met Damian. I was abroad, robbed clean, standing on a foreign street wondering whether to call in a family favor. Then he appeared. He'd draped his own coat over my shoulders, walked me to the embassy, stayed while I filed a police report. He had no money to spare, but he pressed every bill in his wallet into my hands. The day they caught the thief, he was more excited than I was. Beneath the Eiffel Tower, he'd confessed his feelings and sworn himself to me — only me, always. Back in Philadelphia, he forgot every word of it. He'd walk out of a movie at the best part because Stella called. He'd murmur her name in his sleep after a few drinks — "I'll drink her share, don't give her a hard time." His family dinners never had a place for me, but Stella was always at the head of the table. I reached for my purse, done with all of it — and felt my phone buzz. My team had responded. [Boss. Stella Vance is a serious problem.] [The case files are ready. Say the word.] I frowned and tapped the link they'd sent. Stella's influencer profile loaded on my screen. I scrolled for two seconds. Then my breath stopped.
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