Chapter 1 Julia

Seven.

That's the number of men who have approached me with desirous—and unsettling—expressions on their faces this evening. The count began when I stepped onto the terrace at my family's estate, and hasn't subsided even though dinner is scheduled to begin in a few minutes. At some point, I figured they'd get so hungry or drunk that they'd kindly get the fuck away from me. But old, horny men are a bit like Gremlins: If you feed them after midnight, all hell breaks loose. Well, in this case, if you put a beautiful heiress in front of them after eight pm, all hell breaks loose.

Seven of them.

Seven—not counting the ones who have kept their distance, but still stare shamelessly from every dark corner of the terrace, eyeing me over the half-empty drinks clutched in their wrinkly hands. They know I see them. They want me to see them.

Seven.

Based on some rough, back-of-the-napkin math, I figure their average age is around sixty-three years old. Maybe sixty-eight, actually. Walter something-or-other, my father's accountant, surely notches the mean up by several years. Then again, when old guys hit sixty it's practically impossible to pinpoint their ages. Old as fuck, let's say. Their average age is old as fuck.

As I sip my bourbon, trying my best to politely tolerate suitor number seven (who has been droning on about real estate investments for most of this horrendous conversation), I want to throw my drink into the nearby fountain. The thought of screwing one of these ancient men settles uneasily beneath my skin like a parasite. The mere suggestion makes me want to crawl out of my own body—a monumental feat because I happen to love my body.

They're relentless, willing to rip out each other's jugulars for a chance with me. In fact, even while number seven is shooting his shot, Walter something-or-other is standing by the bar, constantly glancing in my direction. Despite his delusions of subtlety, he's unabashed. Creepy. I wonder if he stares because he's genuinely attracted to me, or if—as my father's accountant—he knows how much I'll inherit one day.

I could vomit. Hell, I've had better experiences getting a full Brazilian. I'm used to men approaching me, but tonight is different.Tonight they've been completely presumptuous—smug because they were invited to my billionaire father's birthday party. They only care about how lovely I'd look on their arms next to their Rolexes, regardless of anything below the surface.

Revolting.

"You've grown up beautifully, Julia," number seven declares while giving me yet another surveying perusal from head to toe. The gesture is blatant, underpinned by audacity.

On some level, I'm also insulted. What the hell does he mean when he says I've ‘grown up beautifully?' I've been beautiful my whole fucking life.

Hungrily, he wets his lower lip with his tongue and continues with, "The last time I saw you, you were—"

"I was too young for you," I interject, releasing a pointed sigh so he can quickly ascertain that I am not going to tolerate this. "And for what it's worth, I may be twenty-eight, but I'm stilltoo young for you. I always will be. Here's a rule of thumb: If a woman was born after the film Forrest Gump released in theaters, she's too young for you. You know Forrest Gump. It's the long one with lots of scenes of the Vietnam War. Oh, but you probably don't know what Vietnam looked like, since you dodged the draft."

Number seven, whose name is actually Glen, stares at me with his lips parted slightly. A look of confusion quickly melts into indignation.

"I didn't dodge the draft," he protests, now pulling his weathered face into a scowl. "I was enrolled at Wharton—"

"Yes, like my father," I interrupt again before sipping my bourbon. "You Wharton men can't resist reminding everyone that you're, in fact, Wharton men. Here's another helpful rule for you: If the person you're speaking to didn't go to Wharton, they don't care about Wharton."

Glen's brow is so tight that new crease lines seem to appear on his face. He begins to shake his head, but stops short like he's unsure what exactly is going on.

What's going on? I'm verbally obliterating you.

"Glen, you're a financial planner," I continue, ready to end this once and for all. "I'm your client's daughter. So, unless you have financial advice for me, I would say we're acquaintances at best and I'm eager to keep it that way. How does that sound?"

"It sounds fine, Julia," he murmurs, his expression flattening by the second. I can tell he's dying to retort, but my father is my trump card. Glen isn't arrogant enough to go toe to toe with the daughter of the sixth richest man in the world.

Plus, I would absolutely destroy him regardless of who my father is—and Glen knows it.

"Great, so no financial advice? Buy low, sell high? Stick with a reliable index fund? Should I short something?" I go on, openly mocking him now.

To Glen's credit, he doesn't indulge me with a response. He simply turns and stalks away, straightening his tuxedo while trying to regain the height in his spine.

He didn't answer me, but I do assume "buy low, sell high" is the way to go.

Exhaling, I sweep my dress's train to avoid stepping on it, and I head to the large Beauvais fountain on the opposite side of the terrace. There, I balance my drink on the thick stone basin's ledge and consider how to sit while wearing such a tight dress.

It's a hideous, gold couture number I'm only wearing because the designer dared me to, and I owed him because he came through with a safety pin when my dress tore at the Met Gala last year. Oh, and he offered me fifteen thousand dollars to post a picture of me wearing it. So, there's that too.

The bodice isn't awful, and does the lord's work on my tits. The skirt, on the other hand, is ridiculous: mermaid cut with a train that trumpets around me while pinching my legs together at the same time.

I'm going to murder the designer next time I see him.

"You look more furious than usual," a voice calls out.

I glance up and find my friend Peter Davenport approaching. His brown eyes meet mine and a wry expression emerges on his handsome face, cutting through the sculpted angles of his jaw to make him look younger than his twenty-nine years. Peter is many things to me: old friend, best friend, family friend, partner in crime, and someone I would call a brother if we hadn't fucked a few times over the years. Our fathers have been business partners for all our lives—business partners who built Davenport-Ridgeway, the world's largest holding company—and are now two of the wealthiest assholes alive today.

Peter is the middle of the three Davenport siblings and he plays the part of a middle child so well. He's ennui and unpredictability and zero-fucks-given all wrapped up in one gorgeous wrecking ball of a man. Over the years, we've always found each other at our fathers' parties and spend most of the night shamelessly mocking the countless powerful men who have come dressed to the nines to kiss the Davenport-Ridgeway ring.

"You're here," I breathe out, relief striking me at once. "Where the hell have you been, Peter? I've been at this god-awful party for two hours without you."

"In my defense, I was here." A smirk steadily grows on his lips.

"Where?"

"Screwing a cater waiter." His grin reaches peak, and I can't help but smile because I love this guy—platonically, of course.

"Well, thanks for pulling out and making an appearance." I motion for him to come closer so I can kiss his cheek.

"No worries. You know I'll always drop whatever I'm doing to please your father."

His words drip with so much sarcasm, they leave a puddle on the floor. Peter gives no shits about our obligations as the children of unfathomably rich and powerful men. I've always respected him for his indifference, not because indifference is particularly difficult, but because people would kill to have access to our fathers. And I mean that literally: There was once a credible threat to my life when someone conspired to kidnap me for ransom when I was seventeen.

"You look incredible, by the way," he comments, shifting his eyes to my absurd dress. "You're like an antique, Austrian candelabra."

"This dress is the embodiment of expensive for no reason." I grimace and rest my hand on the skintight bodice. "You look incredible too."

"That's our job as the resident family misanthropes," he says in lieu of thanking me. "Show up, look incredible, and speak only to each other—well, to each other and whichever warm body we're going to fuck tonight. Respectively. Unless you want to share. I haven't had a threesome in, like, weeks."

"I'll be doing no fucking tonight," I assure him. "The men at this party are here because they work with my father or because they want to work with my father."

"Don't blame you. But hey, the waiter I just banged was gorgeous. If you get bored, he's on canapés," Peter mentions, gesturing over his shoulder.

"Hard pass."

Briefly, his expression dips into confusion before recognition strikes him. "Ah that's right," he recalls. "The new Julia Ridgeway doesn't fuck strangers."

I pin him with a contemptuous look. "My limit isn't strangers, per se. I just don't sleep with men if there's no emotional connection. If a stranger can magically prove he understands me in thirty seconds or less, I'm game."

Peter shakes his head and chuckles. "That is, assuming he can keep up with you physically."

"Oh, obviously."

Peter isn't kidding—and neither am I. I'm bored with men who want to possess me. I'm bored with shallow, vanilla encounters. I'm bored with stale pickup lines and delicate egos that deflate when I refuse to drop everything to worship them. At this point, I'm happier celibate.

For a year now, I've desperately sought a guy who can offer me an emotional connection—and fuck me so well I forget my own name. One quality or the other is rare, but not unheard of. The combo? Borderline elusive.

"You know, if you're in town the rest of the week, I'm heading to New York for a couple days," he mentions. "You should join."

"Can't. I'm meeting Jay in Ibiza."

At the mention of our friend Jay, Peter snickers. "Speaking of guys who can't keep up with you physically…"

Immediately, I send a glare in his direction. "Stop. You're killing my vibe."

His look of skepticism switches to amusement. "Vibe? What vibe? Look where we are, babe. We're at your geriatric father's birthday party, and both of us are basically sober."

"Peter, I've had three drinks." I hold up my half-empty glass as proof.

"Like I said, we're basically sober," Peter echoes. "Let's hit the bar."

Classic Peter. "I'll be there in a second. I should finish this one first."

"Okay, nun," he teases while departing, saluting lazily over his shoulder.

Alone, I turn back to the fountain and once again think about how I can sit on the edge. Fuck this dress and—for that matter—fuck couture. There. I said it.

I slide my drink a couple inches away and attempt to lower myself onto the stone, minding the dress's tight seam. Surely this doesn't look sexy. But then again, if it wards off the thirsty predators, I don't mind it.

I'm two inches away from planting my butt on the ledge when suddenly, my heel slides on the misshapen stones lining the terrace. My foot shifts and I teeter backwards—

—until a firm hand catches my elbow, saving me from plunging into the fountain behind me.

"Up or down?" the owner of the hand asks.

I blink twice. And again.

The man who caught me and is now staring down at me is a fucking king.

He may be the most handsome man I've ever seen in real life, which is saying something because I dated Leonardo DiCaprio for six weeks when I was twenty-two. His features are angular and severe, but they work together to make him look striking. High cheekbones, a distinctive nose, and pale blue eyes—the works. My agent from my teenage modeling days would have clasped her hand to her heart and seen dollar signs the moment she spotted this man.

I, on the other hand, am more focused on his firm grip on my arm. This person—this stranger—is touching me. It doesn't matter that he's incomprehensibly, borderline paranormally attractive; he doesn't get to touch me without permission.

"Up," I finally decide.

He hoists my arm upwards, bringing me to my feet. Only when I'm steady does he finally release me. His hand goes straight from my arm to his well-styled black hair, which he smooths back even though it's perfect. The cut is fresh and even, short on the sides and slightly longer on top, maybe to minimize the appearance of the gray beginning to set in his temples. I'd clock him at early forties, maybe. He'll be a silver fox soon enough.

And holy shit. Beyond this man's model good looks, he has a body worth losing my dignity over. Tall with big shoulders and hard muscles that fill out his tux in sinful ways. Rock solid. Massive. Jesus, this man is so fucking fine.

My heart is pounding, pumping heat to every corner of my body.

"You good?" he asks in a deep, rusty tone laced with confidence and command.

"I'm fine." I clip my words, hoping to mask how hard it is for me to stop gaping at him with my mouth practically watering.

He lifts a full eyebrow and takes me in, lingering pointedly on all the right beats. Tits. Waist. Ass. Tits again.

Good boy.

"That's quite a dress," he finally comments, once again following the curve of my body with his blue eyes. Can he see that his presence alone has my nipples hardening painfully beneath the bodice?

"It's a nightmare."

"You should think about taking it off," he replies.

God damn it.

God damn it.

When those words leave his lips, I freeze. My brow pulls together on its own.

Are you fucking serious?

"Was that a line?" I manage to ask after a pregnant pause.

"Lines are for men who act coy. I don't play games." His expression is unwavering—a focused, ravenousstare that tracks my own.

My hand tightens around my glass. Just when I thought I'd met a guy who could turn this abysmal evening around, who could undo the lascivious comments of the seven bastards who had the audacity to objectify me, he had to make a comment like that.

Entitled. Presumptuous.

He doesn't even know my name.

Or maybe he does know my name and doesn't give a roaring shit about my personality. Maybe I'm just candy for his arm. A one-of-a-kind accessory. But I've spent my entire life as an object; like hell am I going to screw another man who wants me for my looks and nothing else.

Make it eight. That's the number of men who have collectively ruined my night. And yet this one—this fucking guy—might be the worst one because, again, he's so fucking fine.

"You've got to be kidding me." I narrow my eyes into daggers. "You think you can sidle over to me, touch me without my permission, and then give me a half-assed command to strip for you and actually get what you want?"

It's his turn to freeze. His brow knots and he continues to stare at me, his eyes seeking. His lips part like he wants to speak, but doesn't know what to say.

"Let me be clear," I go on before I gesture over him. "All of this looks good, but you're delusional if you think you're anywhere close to my league. So, kindly fuck right off and save us both the embarrassment."

"That's how you're going to speak to me?" he finally responds. This time, his expression looks borderline amused. He lets out an annoying scoff before he shakes his head, never breaking eye contact. "You have no clue how many people have tried to grandstand with me over the years. You think you faze me, honey? You don't faze me."

Honey, ugh.

It's on.

"Faze you? I'm not interested in testing the resilience of the paper-thin shell around your ego. I just want you to get your entitled ass away from me." I wave my hand over his shoulder, practically shooing him off. "Go on. I'm too young for you anyway."

"I'm forty-three," he clarifies with a frown…and I'm reluctant to admit his body looks phenomenal for a man in his forties.

"Cool, Jeffrey Epstein," I say instead, refusing to give him any reprieve. "And I'm twenty-eight and far from interested."

"And yet you've had every opportunity to walk away, but you're still here staring at me like you want to lick the cologne off my skin."

He didn't hesitate, and I nearly freeze. It's been ages since a man threw my shit back in my face.

Yeah, it's so fucking on.

"You are by far the most abhorrent man I've ever spoken to, which is saying something because my father used to have Bernard Ebbers over for dinner once a month," I counter, bringing up one of my father's old friends who turned out to be a white-collar criminal.

The man actually chuckles and is about to respond when my older brother, Davis, suddenly appears. He's flushed, but he hastily interjects with, "Hey, I see you two have met and that we're already on the topic of Bernard Ebbers. Awesome."

I narrow my eyes at my brother, who—as is typical—looks like he's barely holding back a nervous breakdown. "I don't even know who this is," I explain to Davis. "I was standing here, and he had the utter audacity to come over here and—"

"Gus Winter is the CEO of FundRight, Julia," Davis interjects, the desperation now visibly apparent on his face. "As in, the company I just flew to London to meet with."

I examine my brother, whose blond hair is askew like he ran across the terrace to intervene. Unlike me, Davis—our father's pride and joy—works for Davenport-Ridgeway. His job as a vice president is the single most important thing to him. As a result, he often forgets that I know jack shit about the day to day at the company—and therefore have no idea what the hell he's talking about. "Okay, and? I don't track you, Davis. I don't know where you're traveling for work."

"Is this your girlfriend? Your wife?" The man, Gus Winter, shoots a look at Davis.

"My sister," Davis answers wearily, like it's the most depressing truth ever.

Rude.

"Your sister," Gus remarks. His eyes track between Davis and me. "How fun. Now tell me, which of you is going to tell your father that his beloved daughter just tanked the FundRight acquisition?"

I'm embarrassed by how long it takes me to put two and two together: Gus is the CEO of FundRight, and Davis must be in the middle of brokering an acquisition on behalf of Davenport-Ridgeway.

Oh shit.

Oh shit.

I may not work for my father's company, but I know better than to screw around when it comes to Davenport-Ridgeway. Acquisitions are a holding company's bread and butter. Literally all Davenport-Ridgeway does is buy other companies and reap the profits. My stomach lurches when I realize what I've done. This mistake could cost billions—maybe tens of billions.

"Oh…" I mouth before trailing off.

"Have a good evening, Ridgeways," Gus sneers with a final burning glare before he heads in the opposite direction, leaving me alone with Davis. As he goes, I watch his figure disappear into the sea of tuxedos, tall, strapping, and so angry.

"You're a psychopath," Davis grits out, turning to face me, cheeks reddening. Desperate, he raises his chin to see where Gus went and moves to follow him.

In my twenty-eight years of pissing off men, the most important thing I've learned is to give them space to regrow their spines. "Let him walk," I advise, catching Davis by the arm. "He needs to cool off. I said a number of horrible things before you showed up."

"A number?" my brother hisses. "Things more horrible than comparing someone to Bernard Ebbers?"

"I may have made a Jeffrey Epstein comment," I admit grimly. "Oh, don't look at me like that. He came over and hit on me. It was completely vile."

Davis widens his eyes and stammers for words. "Julia, I cannot deal with this right now. You have no idea what kind of position you've just put me in."

But I do get it, even if I don't show it. I don't work for the company, but I do recognize its influence.

More alarming, however, is the look on Davis's face. I love my brother—and I know he's the living embodiment of anxiety itself. This face? Not good. Definitely not good.

"Look, I'm sorry," I offer, hoping my sincerity comes through. "We'll salvage this somehow. But right now, cocktail hour is ending and you're due to make a speech in thirty minutes, so you need to get it together. Can you do that? Do I need to grab you a Xanax?"

His glare is one for the record books. "No, but do me a favor, and literally never speak to anyone again."

I'm generally bulletproof, but when it comes to the few people I love, I hate disappointing them. Davis's words sting, but I don't let it show. Silently, I nod. I can't always get the last word.

Davis motions for me to follow him to our table and I do, knowing tonight is likely the first in a series of horrible nights for him—nights he'll spend working late to salvage what I broke. Responsibility is one of the consequences of having the keys to our father's kingdom—consequences neither I nor my twin brother Kieran endure because we don't work at Davenport-Ridgeway.

Fuck that though. I wish I could fix it. Davis deserves it, especially with all he puts up with: our father's expectations, Kieran's hedonistic escapades, and…yeah, all my bullshit.

I have few loyalties—and my family is one. The last thing I want is to let any of them down.

Fuck those seven men for setting me up to fail tonight. Seriously, fuck them.

But most of all, fuck Gus Winter.

Fuck him.