Chapter 1

Clara

“Clara, bad news. Your model is a no-show.”

The words that every designer dreads to hear reached me, as I rushed about backstage of the auction house, polishing, and refining, just up to the last minute. I turned and stared at the organizer, Felicia.

“Just my model hasn’t shown? Can we double up someone else’s?” I tried, as I turned to look at the models filling the small back room.

“No time for make-up and hair changes. You’ll have to do it yourself,” Felicia said. I stared at her, a million reasons to refuse running through my head and being disregarded just as quickly.

“I know you hate all that, but it’s for a good cause, and you are getting great exposure for your line,” Felicia said in a matter-of-fact tone, as she straightened up the dressing tables. I thought back to the conversation this morning with my mother. Despite being in Boston, she still managed to convey the requisite amount of judgment and condemnation for my choices over the phone. She didn’t like that I was making jewelry and hawking it for sale (her words), at all. It simply wasn’t done. Emily Winter was on ever-higher alert than usual since my brother Elliot had jumped ship and married the love of his life, without giving a single toss for what she thought. As a result, she was clamping even further down on me, her last hope of having the society match she so longed for. She thought making jewelry was a scandalous pursuit, akin to designing dildos or ball gags.

Dropping out of the auction would let down the charity, also there was a slight chance my mother would think her words had sunk in and influenced me. I couldn’t let that happen.

“Fine,” I sighed, wishing I’d worn something slightly more in keeping with the rest of the models.

“So, you agree?” Felicia demanded.

“Agree is a strong word, but I guess I have no choice,” I sighed, turning to the necklace I planned to present.

The annual charity auction for Literas Veritas, a charity that provided mobile libraries and reading tuition to children in disadvantaged areas all around the world, was a highly sought-after event. In true high society fashion, the narcissists that thrived in NYC society had turned an altruistic event into a chance to elevate their social status. I was benefitting from my family’s standing, something I did nothing to deserve, and the whole thing left a bad taste in my mouth. But free publicity couldn’t be bought, and I desperately wanted to make a name for myself separate from the Winter moniker.

Elliot, the other Winter sibling, was a gifted lawyer, and besides, he had already shown my parents how little he cared for their judgment. Maybe it was easier for men, I wondered, perhaps unfairly. Or more accurately, maybe he was just braver than me. I could have resented him for how well he had shrugged off the bonds of the Winter family responsibility and social image, but I’d met Mia. She was so perfect for him, so real and alive… I couldn’t resent him. I wanted him to be happy, after all.

At least one of us should be.

* * *

Jack

I don’t normally come to events like these. The more people want to dress up and show each other how big their pearls are, the less I want to be around. I don’t have anything to prove to these status hungry leeches, and for reasons, I’ll never understand, that only seems to make me more interesting to them. Like an exhibit at a zoo. Come on round, folks, ogle for yourself the primitive blue-collar guy who became a tech billionaire. Isn’t he a sight? It was boring frankly, and if I hadn’t been strong-armed into it for the worthy cause by my PR manager Rachel, I would be at home downtown, keeping a low profile, working, hanging out, and being a hell of a lot happier.

I suppose I could blame the latest article about me in Forbes.

Jack Dawson Loves Money, Hates People.

That was a little harsh, to say the least, but there was a grain of truth in it, I’d been forced to admit. The most salient fact was I didn’t hate all people. I didn’t hate the people of my parent’s neighborhood in Queens, or those of the mechanic”s garage I’d worked in as a teen. I didn’t hate my employees, and I sure didn’t hate my customers, though I’m sure some were terrible. Mostly, I hated the world that my newly minted billionaire status had shot me into.

Uptight, judgemental, power-hungry vultures, that seemed to be the pre-requisite features of New York’s elite, and I honestly didn’t have time for them.

I took a seat in a spindly, uncomfortable chair. It was always a strange fact that the more upper crust, and exclusive, old-money feel that an event or venue had, the more shabby and uncomfortable it was. Probably just another thing that my modern, gauche billions didn’t enable me to understand, but if you wanted people to drop serious coin, give them a goddamn comfy chair.

The auction had started. Bored models paraded jewelry that looked more like art pieces and major inconveniences. If a woman wore this ridiculous stuff on a date with me, it would be over before it had begun, and not in a fun way.

I wondered idly if I should bid on something, and if so, what? I didn’t have anyone in my life I would buy jewelry for. My mom wouldn’t thank me for it, and I didn’t give women jewelry either. It sent the wrong message, mainly, that I had the slightest interest in them.

A bored model walked off stage, and another stepped on.

This girl was different, however. She wasn’t bored-looking, for one, and was a good deal shorter and curvier than the others. Given the rest had been extremely thin, that wasn’t difficult, but moreover, she was beyond gorgeous, easily the most stunning woman I’d ever seen in the flesh. Yet it was her expression that caught my notice. Her cheeks were suffusing gently with pink, but her eyes were defiant, as she stared at the seated audience, as though daring anyone not to bid on her items. She wasn’t wearing the revealing dresses of the models either. This girl looked like she had wandered out of the audience and got lost backstage. She wore a simple, fitted cream dress that barely showed her body, and illogically, made me all the more curious to see it. Her eyes held me.

The jewelry she modeled was discreet. There were no statement necklaces or spaceship-sized earrings on this one. A fine gold chain held a pendant I had no hope of making out from my seat, and the flash of diamonds in her ears was the only adornment, and yet, she was the one it was hard to look away from.

The auctioneer began the bidding. He started high, and rapidly dropped, as there wasn’t any movement on the pieces. That pretty pink blush climbed higher up the model’s face, but her expression only grew more determined at the perceived rejection. Her eyes scanned the audience fearlessly, zeroing in on people, making them shift uncomfortably in their seats.

Bids started to mount, but not as quickly as the others. The model folded her arms over her chest, and the power of that position, the sheer ‘don’t fuck with me’ vibe was palpable. It was hot. I felt my paddle rise without another thought. A penniless model, staring down a room full of people whose personal wealth could rival the GDP of a small country was someone I wanted to know.

“And we have a new bidder, ten thousand from Mr. Dawson,” the auctioneer said. Gossip rippled around the room. Jack Dawson, the reclusive tech billionaire who hated people… what did he know that no one else did? The elite were the most obvious herd of sheep. Bids began to mount, a flurry of activity, pushing the donations upwards. The model’s eyes flickered to me, and she inclined her head a fraction. A thank you. She was stunning. Her long dark blond hair fell in waves, and her huge almond-shaped eyes felt like a touch on my face. Desire, often ignored of late, ripped through me. She had such poise and defiance, I thought a moment what it would be like to master that ferocity, and make her sigh my name. That was a type of power that money couldn”t buy. That was a challenge. The person beside me was whispering loudly to his companion. I listened without meaning to.

“Isn’t that Clara Winter? What is she doing, making a display… what would Emily say?” The man’s scorn and excited speculation dragged across my nerves. So, this girl with the get back stare was a Winter? I did my best to avoid dating the type of women that moved in the social circles I would be in, thanks to my wealth if I cared to socialize at all. I fell into a strange gap. I couldn’t stand the judgemental superiority of the upper classes, and yet, I no longer belonged in the circles of my youth. I had a few close friends who were able to look past the fame and fortune, but not many.

I would have imagined that the daughter of the House of Winter, one of those old money, Mayflower tracing bunch of snobs, wouldn’t be caught dead modeling at a charity event where the rest of the models were nobodies. She was a contradiction, wrapped in a stunning package, and I wanted to know what was inside. Was she someone who fell in the gaps as well? I had to know.

My paddle rose again. The crowd was enlivened by my interest, and I found my paddle rising frequently to stay on top. Frustration roared in my veins as the bidding dragged on endlessly. Clara hadn’t broken my gaze. All the while, as the price crossed half a million dollars, she watched me.

Losing the last thread of patience, I stood.

“One million,” I said. Silence fell around me as people gaped.

“One million for the set?” the auctioneer repeated, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.

“One million for her,” I said calmly into the bubble of silence my words created. And then everyone began to talk at once.