Chapter 1

When the lawyer called me, I had just been kicked out of my rental by my landlord.

He had locked the door and taped a notice to it. The note read: Three months of unpaid rent. Lease terminated according to the law.

Legal my ass.

I sat on the edge of a stone planter, staring at the unknown number on my phone. It rang seven times, but I didn't pick up. Then it started ringing again.

"Hello."

"Am I speaking with Miss Mavis Sullivan?"

"Who's asking?"

"Are you Mavis Sullivan?"

"No."

"Yes, you are."

I stood up. The voice was too certain. It wasn't the fake confidence of an insurance salesman―it was the tone of someone who had already done a deep dive into my life.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Lucian Rhodes, senior partner at Rhodes & Associates. I'm calling on behalf of my client to notify you of a matter."

"What matter?"

I heard the sound of paper rustling on the other end. "You are the sole legal heir to the late Silas Sullivan―the founder of Sullivan Holdings."

"Buddy, you've got the wrong girl. My dad was a truck driver who died in a wreck thirty years ago. My mom passed away last year. I've never even owned a single share of stock in my life."

"Miss Sullivan. Your DNA matches the sample on file in the GeneTree database from my client―a 99.97% match. You are his long-lost granddaughter."

"Your mother, Vanessa Sullivan, was the daughter of Silas Sullivan and his first wife. She was born in 1978, ran away from home in 1995, and married your father in 2009. You are Vanessa's only daughter."

I went silent. The wind blew my favorite T-shirt into a puddle, but I didn't even try to grab it.

"Mr. Rhodes."

"I'm listening."

"I have three hundred and seventy-two dollars in my bank account. My credit card debt is sixty grand. I have no house, no car, and no degree. Are you absolutely sure you're talking to me?"

"I am certain. The assets you are set to inherit are currently valued at approximately two hundred and fifty million dollars."

My suitcase tipped over and hit the pavement.

1.

My name is Mavis Sullivan. I'm twenty-five. I've been a professional bartender for seven years.

I started working right after finishing high school at eighteen. It's not that I didn't want to go to college―it's that my mom was diagnosed with late-stage stomach cancer during my senior year. My dad's life insurance and all our savings were swallowed by the hospital. In the end, the money was gone, and so was she.

I spent two years washing glasses in the back of a dive bar before they let me stand behind the counter. I taught myself how to mix drinks by watching a Japanese bartender on YouTube, practicing on a folding table in my tiny apartment with cheap supermarket liquor. I broke seven glasses before I mastered the shaker.

My signature drink was called "Mavis's Morning"―vodka, orange juice, and grenadine, perfectly layered. The top was clear, the middle was bright orange, and the bottom was deep crimson. It looked like a sunrise and cost twelve bucks. I took a twelve percent commission, and on a good night, I'd sell twenty.

On a bad night―like a rainy Tuesday―I might only sell two.

In my seven years in the bar scene, the first thing I learned wasn't how to mix a drink. It was how to read people.

The middle-aged man sitting alone in the corner at 2:00 AM is almost certainly divorced.

The girl who says "whatever" when she orders has probably just been stood up by her boyfriend.

The guy in the expensive suit with frayed cuffs―his hand will shake when he hands over his credit card.

The truly dangerous ones are the guys with flushed faces and loud voices who start asking, "Do you have any idea who I am?" I have a trick for them―I fill their glass with double the ice. As the ice melts, the drink thins out, but they're too drunk to tell the difference.

One time, a bald guy had too much and grabbed my wrist, demanding I drink with him. I agreed. I pulled my private bottle of vodka from under the bar―it was filled with water. I poured him a full glass and myself a half―both water. He slammed it back and told me it was the good stuff while I rolled my eyes behind the bar.

After he left, Ken―the other bartender―asked if I was scared.

"Scared of what?"

"Your arm was shaking when he grabbed you."

I looked down at my right hand. It was definitely shaking. "Shaking is fine. As long as I don't spill the drink."

When I was twenty-two, a bar owner tried to recruit me as a brand ambassador―twenty-five grand a month, designer suits, and high heels. The catch was a five-year "exclusivity contract."

I told him no.

"Because you own the brand. I own my bar."

"You're being difficult, Mavis."

"Maybe. But being difficult is the only reason I'm still standing."

Last month, while walking home from my night shift, someone on a bike snatched my phone. I didn't chase him―not because I couldn't, but because it was a two-year-old used model that wasn't worth dying for.

My landlord had been hounding me for three months. Every time he showed up, he'd stand in the doorway with his hands on his hips, shouting insults in a thick Jersey accent so the whole building could hear. I'd just smile and tell him I'd have the money tomorrow.

Tomorrow never came.

But today, a lawyer did.