Chapter 1

ONE

Six years earlier

"It's not going to work." I stiffen my arm, unwilling to give my sister's hairbrained scheme any more thought.

"It will." Roe's long, tan legs eat the space between us as she marches across my room and rips the ID card from my grip. Giving me a pointed look, she darts her attention back to the card and narrows her eyes. She studies it as if she's mentally checking off all the reasons why using this fake ID will work. Seconds tick by before she dramatically flips her long brown hair and plops herself down on the oversized bean bag chair I stole from her before she moved from our parents' house two years ago and into her dorm. She sinks into it, crossing her legs under her. She delicately cradles the card in her small hands and stares up at me. Her pointed expression is now one of silent pleading.

I sigh. "The girl in the picture doesn't even look like me, Roe."

"Yes, she does," she disagrees. There's an edge to her voice as if she's on the brink of resorting to flat out begging me to go with her.

Frustrated, I unravel my legs from my bed and cross the room to stand in front of her. She looks up at me with unwavering confidence; the only kind I've ever seen woven into her expression. Firm set jaw. Placid, perfect, full lips. Her brown eyes are both menacing and kind, at the same time. Kindness hidden behind her tough exterior; Roe doesn't surrender easily when she has her sights set on a goal.

But I haven't given up my fight yet. Staying in my room and snuggling in the comfort of my own bed while watching crime documentaries sounds infinitely more exciting than the illegal adventure my sister is convincing me to partake in.

I stab the card with my finger, preparing to go through my list of reasons why I positively know this won't work. "Half her hair is blue."

She waves me off, breaking her plain stare. The corners of her mouth curl deviously. "Blue hair is usually temporary," she argues. "It could have faded."

"Her hair is blonde at the roots. My entire head is as dark a shade of brown as it can get."

"You could have dyed it."

"Okay, now you're really starting to sound like a lawyer." I groan, ripping the card from her hands the same way she took it from me. I lift it to my face and shake my head. Uncertainty wobbles in my belly, and my chest flutters. It feels as if a thousand electric shocks are shooting underneath my skin.

"Come on," Roe whines.

Now she's resorting to begging.

"It's your nineteenth birthday, Laurel. And my twenty-first. You're my baby sister and my best friend. We can't celebrate separately. We never have and never will."

She's right. We haven't. We've always been together every single year.

But something about this birthday is different. The air in my room feels stale. The thrill of going out and celebrating seems lackluster.

"You need to get out," Roe continues. "Meet new people."

I roll my eyes. "I'll meet new people when the semester starts in a month. If you haven't forgotten, I'm going to Harvard, too. We'll practically be living together again."

My sister Monroe is exactly two years older than me to the day. Despite our two-year age difference, we look nearly identical: long, dark chestnut hair, big, equally as dark brown eyes. But the way we look is where our similarities end. Monroe is far more sociable than I am. She's louder and has about one hundred more friends than I do. Hence why she's currently sitting in front of me, pleading with me to go out with her. She's always begging me to tag along. I used to deny her flat out when she begged, but the older I've gotten, the more I tend to cave.

I'm trying my hardest to not let her win this time.

"We can go another night," I tell her, dropping the card on my desk.

With a huff, she sits up and swipes the card back. She grabs my purse and tugs my wallet free, swapping it for my actual ID card. The one that says I'm currently nineteen.

"I've been using this card for the past year," she admits. Satisfied the card is tucked away safely in my purse, she crosses the room again and wraps both her hands around mine. "Please."

I nervously chew on the inside of my cheek. "I'm still not sure this is a good idea."

"I'm telling you." She blinks with a knowing grin. "This is the place to be tonight. The Underground is where everyone from Harvard goes on nights like this. I've even seen a few Boston College guys there. Maybe you can meet one. There's this one guy I've been talking to, and I could use you as my sidekick. I need you there."

The idea of meeting someone tonight causes my stomach to somersault. It's been six months since I ended my relationship with my ex. I thought he was everything I wanted, but he wasn't.

I felt no fire. No butterflies. Nothing.

I was left feeling unfilled. So, I ended it.

Now, though, I'm thrilled for what the future has in store for me over the next few months. Starting with Harvard Law School.

"How do you know this will work?" I ask my sister. I love her and want to celebrate this night with her, but I can't shake the uneasiness I've been feeling.

"Because it's worked for me every other time," she practically sings. Her eyes flicker with excitement. She knows I'm cracking. "Because we're Monroe and Laurel Branford."

My sister has a point. Born into a family such as ours comes with privilege. Even though our parents aren't considered as well-known in Boston as our extended family, our name still carries weight. The Branfords are one of the wealthiest and respected families in the city. It's a name I feel incredibly lucky to bear.

I hate using my name to my advantage or for exclusive privileges, but the moment I lift my hands to fix the diamond encrusted tiara lined with bright pink feathers sitting on top of my sister's head, the last bit of fight I have in me dissolves.

"Fine." I groan. "I'll go with you. But if this doesn't work and we get arrested, you're calling Dad to bail us out."

It worked. Roe's fake ID actually worked!

The doorman barely glanced at the card I held gripped between my fingers before waving us through the double black doors of the club. Maybe it's because Roe is so well known here that no one bothers to question her. I let the air leak out of my lungs slowly, willing my pulse to slow and my muscles to relax.

Once through the doorway, Roe immediately reaches behind her and grabs my hand, pulling me through the sea of people in front of us. White flashing lights dance across the entire club, and seas of people move back and forth, some dancing, some just trying to make their way through.

Roe heads straight to the bar, saying we need to at least start with two shots to "get our blood warm."

I don't bother asking her what type of alcohol is in them. Sour followed by sweet, I down the two shots as quickly as I can before Roe orders us another round plus a martini.

I'm sipping on my second martini when a man appears behind Roe, sliding his arms around her waist and pulling her to his chest. She looks up at him with a grin and a slightly unfocused gaze.

He must be the Boston College guy she was telling me about. His sandy hair dances across his forehead as he bends down, whispering in my sister's ear.

She giggles and curls her shoulders inward, then looks up. "This is my sister, Laurel. Wish her a happy birthday, too."

"Happy birthday, Laurel!" the man yells over the music.

"Thank you!" I yell back. Heat blooms across my face. I'm unsure whether it's from his sentiment or from the alcohol. Either way, I'm suddenly self-conscious of everything around me. I quickly run my fingers through my loose waves, tucking them behind my ears, then tug on the hem of my skintight, black leather cocktail dress. I straighten my birthday tiara and give my sister a reassuring smile.

"We're going to go dance!" she yells over the music. "Do you want to come with us?"

"No." I shake my head. "I'm good. You go ahead."

"Are you sure?" Her perfect eyebrows knit.

"Well, if you don't want to hang out at the bar by yourself, you're more than welcome to sit at my table," her date chimes in, moving beside Roe, but keeping his arm wrapped around her. He leans forward so I can hear him better. "I came with a few friends and classmates. They're sitting in the booth over there in the corner." He jerks his head back. "We have a private server. Feel free to order anything you want."

I swing my eyes up in the direction of the table Roe's date mentioned long enough to gauge who is over there. I count a total of six incredibly gorgeous people: Two pairs are obvious couples and the other two are waiting as the waitress fills their shot glasses to the brim. They sling the shots back and slam them back down onto the glass table. After one of the men finishes his shot, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and nudges his friend with his elbow. The friend's face is blocked by the woman straddling his lap and running her mouth down the side of his face, but I get a better look when he turns to look at his friend.

Clean cut, yet somehow still rough around the edges, with thick, dark as night hair, and stubble lining his chiseled jaw. Brooding and mysterious, his eyes glint in the light, along with the shiny, oversized watch on his wrist, and the long silver chain tucked beneath his collared shirt. He screams money. Admittedly, he's beautiful. Almost too beautiful. He has nearly every single trait we Branfords recognize. The instinct to identify those in our circle is built in our DNA.

"Laurel?" Roe's voice pulls my attention back. Her eyes have softened. "What do you want to do?"

"I'll figure it out." I blink. "I'm good here for now."

"Okay." She frowns. It only lasts two seconds before she's grinning again. "Don't forget to mingle and meet people. Find a hot guy or… something. That's why I brought you here."

I laugh, knowing it isn't the only reason. Monroe dragged me here as her wingman to give her the confidence she clearly doesn't need.

After my sister and her date disappear into the crowd, I lift my drink to my mouth and survey the crowd around me over the rim of my glass. The place is packed.

I lose track of how long I stand at the bar. Finally, chest warm and my stomach bubbling with anxiety, I down the rest of my drink, slam it on the bar top behind me, and aimlessly move. I don't know where I'm going. I just move. I only know I don't want to stand here watching strangers dancing.

I concentrate on my breathing until I find myself standing out front of the club, the bright neon sign blinking behind me. The security guard checking IDs at the door glances in my direction curiously before resuming his work.

My anxiety ramps up again. I can't explain it. I'm not like Monroe. I'm not bold. I'm not popular. I'm not outgoing. It's not as if I'm not used to places such as this—extravagant restaurants and bars filled with people who make more money than others make in their entire lifetimes, several times over. I'm one of them.

Yet I'm not.

I fish my phone from my purse and call an Uber. I consider calling our family driver but remember he has the night off. When my ride is confirmed, I quickly type a text to Roe to tell her I'm feeling sick and I've ordered a ride home. I know she won't buy it, but I don't care. She probably won't even check her phone until I'm already back home, snuggled in bed.

I've finished typing out my text when an alert pops up on my phone telling me my ride is here. A black sedan.

I look up just as it pulls alongside the curb.

"Thank God," I mutter with a sigh of relief, stuffing my phone in my purse.

After opening the back door, I slide along the smooth black seat, with the scent of clean leather filling my nose.

Reaching behind me, I tug the door, but it won't budge. Looking up, I catch sight of a hand gripped onto the top of it, keeping me from closing it.

Suddenly, the man bends, lowering his face in my view. Two dark-as-midnight eyes stare at me. A long silver necklace dangles from his neck, surrounded by a black button-down shirt beneath a black suit jacket. He runs his fingers through his near-black hair. Everything about him is dark.

Dark and brooding. The men my mother has always told me to avoid.

He's the man I saw sitting at Roe's date's table earlier. The one with the woman practically dry humping him.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asks, smelling like cigarettes, whiskey, and mint.

"What do you mean?" I ask, stunned.

"You're in my car," he states, unamused. His cobalt blue eyes flick to the driver.

I catch the driver watching me through the rearview mirror. Holding a breath, I look around as if I'll find a clue to help me figure out what the hell is going on.

I lean back to see if I can find the rideshare company logo on either the front or back windshield, but my head swims, and I grab the seat like I'm on a carnival ride. Uh-oh. The drinks have finally kicked in.

"Oh, I thought this was the rideshare I ordered." I frown and tilt my head to the side and scoot forward. "Sorry," I mutter.

My cheeks are burning, and I can't tell if it's from the alcohol or the utter embarrassment brewing inside me. Kill me now.

"It's fine." The man stops me. "I can give you a ride."

I peer up at him, confused. He's a stranger, and the first rule you learn as a child is to never take rides from strangers.

"It's okay, I already have one. I just got confused." I shake my head, close my eyes, then reopen them, but the man is still staring down at me through his open door.

"I saw you talking with Collin earlier," he says, his body blocking my ability to leave. He brings an already lit cigarette to his mouth, draws in a long, deep inhale, then tips his head up to blow the smoke into the night.

"Collin?" I ask.

"Yeah." His soft lips press together. There's a sadness in his eyes I hadn't noticed until now. Maybe it's just the weird lighting from the neon club sign shining down on him. "Collin's my frat brother."

I nod, the realization dawning on me. "He's dating my sister."

"Sister, huh?"

I don't speak another word. I can't.

The fact this man noticed me in a jam-packed club, surrounded by hundreds of other people? He saw me , and from all the way across the room, too.

I can't stop looking into his eyes. It's as if I recognize them from somewhere, but I know deep down I don't. Maybe it's the pain I see hidden behind his cobalt blues. The corners of his mouth are turned down in what seems to be a permanent frown.

"Slide over," he orders, dropping his cigarette and stubbing it out with the toe of his shiny black dress shoe. I scoot deeper into the car, not realizing I'm doing it until my back hits the opposite door. "Ray can drive you home."

"I don't know you," I say, but the slur in my words makes me cringe. "How do I know you're not a serial killer or something?"

He shrugs with a blank expression, but I can see the alcohol swimming in his eyes. He's as drunk if not more than I am. "You don't." He leans forward and whispers, "But even if I was, I wouldn't kill you. At least not now. Too many witnesses."

I swallow the lump forming in my throat. I can't explain it, but I tell Ray my address, and he pulls away from the club.

We drive through two sets of traffic lights before I risk a glance at the man beside me and notice his expression has changed. His blue eyes are still sad, but they look glassier than earlier. It's as if he's going to burst into tears at any moment. He rests his elbow on the door and massages his chin with his fingertips.

"Rough day?" I ask, hoping to lighten the mood.

For the first time, the corner of his mouth turns up slightly, though it quickly fades. "Something like that."

"Same."

"It's your birthday." It comes out more as a statement than a question.

"It is." My hand flies to the tiara on my head. I'd almost forgotten I was wearing it.

"Was it your party you left early?"

"Not exactly." I shake my head, biting back the urge to word vomit on the man nice enough to give me a ride. I keep silent about it being my sister's birthday as well. While she's my best friend, I've always existed in her shadow, never been taken seriously.

"Why were you out tonight?" I ask.

He pauses, considering his answer carefully as if he's dissecting it before voicing it out loud. "To escape. To forget."

I don't ask him to elaborate. I let his confession hang heavily in the air between us. Maybe it's because I understand him. I can relate. Leaving the club was my way of escaping, too.

The passing streetlights outside make me dizzy. My eyes flutter shut and then they snap open when I feel a hand glide across my cheek.

"A feather from your tiara was in your hair." A tiny, pale purple feather is pinched between his long fingers.

"Thank you," I whisper. "That was sweet." My cheeks bloom with heat.

"Um, okay." His dark eyebrows knit. "What was sweet, exactly?"

"What you did. Thank you." I blink, unsure why I'm being so honest with a stranger. Flushed and panicked, I swallow the words, hoping we can clear the awkwardness wrapping its arms around us. "It's nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Sweet nothings," he says quietly. He shakes his head once and looks down, and I swear I see the faintest tilt in the corner of his mouth.

"Sweet nothings?" I ask him.

"Never mind." There's an edge to his voice. It's distant, but there's an edge.

"Sweet nothings," I repeat, trying to decipher it as if it were some sort of code phrase. "What are sweet nothings?"

He pauses and rubs his finger across his stubbled chin. "It's when…" He allows his voice to trail off. His eyes search my face. "Never mind. It isn't important."

I have no idea what he's talking about.

I bet it's what he was whispering into the ear of the woman riding his lap back at the club. I bet it's what he tells every woman he meets: sweet nothings.

"Thank you for giving me a ride home." I clear my throat. "I don't think I said it yet."

My eyes unconsciously drop to his mouth. The overwhelming urge to kiss him comes over me. I want to wipe the sadness from his lips. I want to take away the glassiness in his eyes. I've been drinking, but I think I would be attracted to him even if I hadn't been.

I know I'm not as bold or as confident as my sister, but I'm still me. I want to kick off this new year trailing my own path instead of following Roe's. I want to be daring and confident like her, but in my own way.

I open my mouth to speak, but the words don't leave my throat before the man's mouth lands on mine. I welcome it, sinking into it with every breath. I close my eyes and breathe him in. His mouth on mine is as beautiful as the first time I saw him. I drink his kiss in as if it's the first kiss I've ever had. It isn't. Not by a long shot. My first kiss was when I was eight. The first time I had sex was when I was sixteen.

But this is different. It's a fevered yet measured kiss. His mouth tastes exactly how it smells: whiskey, cigarettes, and mint. His hands land on my hips, tugging on me. I lift my leg and straddle him. I don't know how far we are from my apartment, but I don't care. My body is humming with his touch. I'm already wet between my thighs. His cock is hard as stone beneath his expensive suit, begging to be set free. He must press one of the buttons on his door because the sound of the partition between us and his driver fills the air, giving us privacy.

He doesn't break his mouth away from mine. Effortlessly, he slides his hand between us, unzipping his pants. I urge him to keep going, wrapping both hands around his face. The stubble lining his jaw cuts into my palms. I bite down on his lip when the back of his hand grazes against my wet center. His knuckles roll across my clit, causing a moan to climb up my throat.

When he finally frees his cock, he pulls a condom from his pocket and slips it on. Grabbing onto my hips with his firm fingers, he guides me over him. I lower myself, feeling every inch of himself bury deep inside me. My walls clench around him, begging him to keep going. I grab onto the collar of his crisp, black shirt, pulling him to me.

Coaxing my lips apart with his tongue, he slides it along mine, tasting me. My legs burn as I lift myself up and down. My heart is racing. Maybe it's the alcohol or maybe it's because I haven't had sex in six months, but I already feel myself approaching the end. I'm going to come all over him before the car has stopped.

This is meaningless. Tomorrow, we'll both wake up and remember this night, knowing we'll likely never see one another again.

Men with our social standing usually don't stick around long, at least the ones I've experienced: my dad, my uncle, our rival families in this city. All have a reputation of putting money before love—a little-known fact only those in our circle know. Everyone else in this city is too busy with their own lives to pay attention to the secrets of the insanely wealthy.

A pawn. A game. Collateral Damage.

I'm no stranger to being used.

Roe used me to get to this party tonight. The man I'm in the car with is using me for an escape. But I don't blame him. I'm using him as an escape, too.

My body vibrates and my chest explodes when he pulls away long enough to whisper against my mouth.

"Happy birthday, sweet nothings."