Chapter 1

The first thing I did after shoving Ethan Lester into the pool was run.

I didn' t look back. I just ran, the sounds of shouting and a huge splash echoing behind me at the Hamptons charity gala.

My designer dress was already torn from my fight with Sabrina Fuller, her stupid, smug face now probably scratched to hell.

"It's over!" I had screamed at Ethan, my voice raw with tears and fury. "We are done!"

Now, panic was a cold sweat on my back. I had just assaulted one of the most powerful men in New York City and his soon-to-be fiancée in front of a hundred of their rich friends.

I couldn't use my credit cards. Ethan would find me in a second. My phone was a tracking device. I turned it off and shoved it deep into my purse.

Near the exit, a girl was smoking, looking bored. She eyed my handbag. It was a limited-edition Chanel that Ethan had bought me.

"I'll give you five hundred cash for the bag," she said, blowing smoke.

"Done."

I dumped my phone and cards on the manicured lawn, took her crumpled bills, and walked away from the glittering party without a second glance. I found the nearest main road and flagged down a car, lying about a fight with my boyfriend and needing a ride to the bus station.

An hour later, I was on a Greyhound bus heading west to Ohio, the five hundred dollars feeling thin in my pocket. The adrenaline started to fade, replaced by a deep, shaking fear.

What had I done? I was Annabel Jenkins, the "personal assistant" to the Wall Street Prince, Ethan Lester. That was the public story. The private one was that I was his girlfriend, his kept woman, for three years. For $25,000 a month, I lived in his world.

And I had just spectacularly blown it all up.

I pressed my forehead against the cold glass of the bus window, the city lights blurring into streaks. My life in New York was over. My food blog, my one piece of independence, was probably next.

I closed my eyes, and the memory of how it all started came rushing back.

Three years ago, I was just a barista in a high-end SoHo café, drowning in debt from my liberal arts degree. I was trying to get my food blog off the ground, but it was going nowhere.

He walked in one afternoon, all custom-tailored suit and quiet authority. Ethan Lester. I' d seen his face in the tabloids. He ordered a black coffee, his voice low and cold.

My hands were shaking from exhaustion. I was working a double shift. As I turned to hand him the cup, I stumbled, and the entire scalding hot latte went down the front of his perfect, expensive suit.

"I'm so sorry! Oh my God, I'm so sorry," I stammered, grabbing napkins.

My manager rushed over, his face pale. "Mr. Lester! I am so sorry! She's fired. You're fired!" he yelled at me.

I expected Ethan to be furious. Instead, he just looked at me, his dark eyes unreadable. I stopped apologizing and just stood there, waiting for the yelling.

"Don't fire her," Ethan said, his voice calm. He never even looked at my manager. He just kept his eyes on me. "It was an accident."

He handed me a business card. "Send the cleaning bill to my office."

Then he turned and walked out, leaving a stunned café in his wake.

The next day, his real personal assistant called me. Mr. Lester wanted to see me. I thought he'd changed his mind, that he was going to sue me or get me blacklisted from every coffee shop in Manhattan.

I went to his office, a glass tower that scraped the sky. He was sitting behind a huge desk, looking just as intimidating as he had in the café.

"I'm not going to sue you," he said, without any preamble.

"Okay," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

"I'm offering you a job."

I blinked. "A job? Doing what?"

He pushed a contract across the desk. "Personal assistant. You'll be available to me when I need you. Dinners, events, travel. The details are in there."

I opened the folder. The salary was at the top: $25,000. A month.

My jaw dropped. "This is... this is a lot of money."

"I'm a busy man," he said, his expression unchanging. "I require a certain... arrangement. It's a three-year contract."

I knew what he was really asking. It wasn't about scheduling his meetings. It was about scheduling me. I was broke, desperate, and tired of being a failure. He was offering me a golden escape hatch.

I looked at him, the powerful, cold man offering me a fortune.

"I accept," I said.

And just like that, my life as Annabel Jenkins, barista, ended. My life as Ethan Lester's girl began.