Chapter 1: The Wedding Night Disaster The wedding suite at The Plaza Hotel smelled of expensive lilies, champagne, and impending doom. I sat on the edge of the king-sized bed, the silk sheets cool against my skin, still wearing my Vera Wang couture gown. It was a dress thousands of women would kill for, but right now, it felt more like a straightjacket. Across the room, my new husband, Chase Sterling—heir to the Sterling Private Equity empire and New York’s most notorious bachelor—was aggressively loosening his bow tie in the mirror. "Why the hell did I agree to this?" Chase grumbled, ripping the silk tie from his neck and tossing it onto the terrifyingly expensive Persian rug. He turned to look at me, his blue eyes cold. "You look miserable, Chloe. Fix your face. The press might have drones outside the window." I slammed my hand on the mahogany dresser, the sound echoing in the tense silence. "Excuse me? You think I wanted this? I’m here because my family’s real estate portfolio is tanking, and your father needed a 'respectable' wife to clean up his son's messy reputation. Don’t act like you’re the victim here, Chase. Go cry to Sierra." Sierra. The name hung in the air like toxic perfume. Sierra was a bottle service girl at Nebula, the most exclusive club in Manhattan. She was beautiful, mysterious, and famously known as Chase Sterling’s "girlfriend." On our wedding night, I was bringing up his mistress. It was tacky, but I didn't care. Chase’s jaw tightened. He poured himself a glass of scotch, his knuckles white against the crystal decanter. "Leave Sierra out of this. You look at you—you’re loud, you’re messy, and you have zero elegance. You’re nothing like her. She’s... gentle. She understands me." I felt a sting of tears but forced them back. "Then go marry her! Why are you here with me?" I stood up, grabbing my suitcase. "I’m done. I’m going back to my parents' estate in the Hamptons. You go to your club. We’ll get an annulment in the morning." I marched toward the door, my heels clicking sharply on the hardwood floor. Before I could touch the handle, Chase grabbed my wrist. He pulled me back, not roughly, but with enough force to make me stumble into his chest. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked, his voice low. "To get a divorce lawyer," I snapped, trying to shake him off. "Go find Sierra. I'm going home." He let out a frustrated sigh, rolling his eyes. "Chloe, stop being dramatic. You can't leave. The paparazzi are camped in the lobby. If you walk out of here alone on our wedding night, the Sterling stock drops ten points by morning. My father will kill me, and your father will lose his financing." I froze. He was right. We were trapped in this gilded cage together. "Fine," I hissed, smoothing out my dress. "But I'm not sleeping in the same bed as you." "Believe me, the feeling is mutual," Chase muttered. He grabbed a pillow and a blanket from the closet. "I'll take the couch. You take the bed. Just... stop yelling. My head hurts." "Maybe if you didn't drink so much at the reception, you'd feel better," I shot back. "Maybe if I didn't have to marry you, I wouldn't have to drink," he countered. I watched him set up a makeshift bed on the velvet sofa. This was Chase Sterling. The boy I had grown up with. The boy who used to pull my pigtails in kindergarten. And now, the husband who wished he was with someone else. "You're unbelievable," I whispered, turning off the lamp. "Night, Chloe," he said into the darkness. "Try not to snore. I know you do." "I do not snore!" I yelled, throwing a decorative cushion at him. "You do," he chuckled, catching the pillow without looking. "I remember from nap time in first grade." I huffed, burying my face in the duvet. I hated him. I really did. Chapter 2: The Bamboo Horse and the Club To understand why this marriage was such a disaster, you have to understand our history. Chase and I were what the Chinese call "Bamboo Horse" friends—childhood neighbors who grew up inseparable. The Sterlings and the Vances ruled the Upper East Side. We went to the same prep schools, the same summer camps in Maine. Our parents always joked about us getting married, forcing us to sit together at galas. But we weren't friends. We were accomplices. Chase was a magnet for trouble. Even in middle school, girls were leaving love notes in his locker. He would bring them to me, looking annoyed. "Here," he’d say, dumping a pile of scented letters and chocolates on my desk during study hall. "I don't like dark chocolate. You eat it." "Why do you take them if you don't like them?" I’d ask, unwrapping a truffle. "I can't hurt their feelings," he’d say with a shrug, leaning back in his chair with that effortless, arrogant grace. "I'm too nice." "You're a player," I’d correct him. "And you're using me as a trash can for your unwanted snacks." "Whatever. You love the chocolate." He was right. I did love the chocolate. And maybe, deep down, I loved that he felt comfortable enough to be his true, annoying self around me. But Chase wasn't husband material. He was a playboy. A rich kid with too much time and money. The incident that should have warned me away forever happened when we were sixteen. I was a straight-A student; Chase was on academic probation. One afternoon, he dragged me out of AP History. "I need a favor," he whispered, pulling me into the janitor's closet. "I need to get into The Velvet Room." "The strip club?" I hissed. "Chase, are you insane? We're minors!" "Not for the dancers," he said, looking desperate. "I need to find someone. A girl named Sierra. Please, Chloe. You know the bouncer, Big Mike, from your dad's security detail. He'll let us in if you vouch for me." "Absolutely not." "If you do this," he said, looking me in the eyes, "I'll owe you. Forever." I was an idiot. I put on a baseball cap, borrowed his oversized hoodie, and we snuck out of school. We went to the club. The bouncer, Mike, looked at me skeptically. "Miss Vance? Does your father know you're here?" "I'm doing a... sociology project," I lied, my voice cracking. "This is my cousin. He's just here to carry my notebook." Mike rolled his eyes but let us in. Inside, the music was deafening. Chase ignored the dancers. He scanned the room frantically until he saw a girl cleaning tables in the back. She looked young, maybe eighteen.
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