Chapter 1

1.

Hour 23 of the blizzard. My phone died filming a TikTok, the last 1% draining away.

In the video, Mia was vlogging from a suite at The Zurich Grand, the Van Cleef & Arpels necklace sparkling against her neck.

That was the necklace Ethan had glanced at on my birthday last year, dismissing it with, “Something that flashy doesn’t fit the professional image of a future lawyer.” Then he handed me a copy of The Federalist Papers.

Now, that same necklace glittered on Mia’s collarbone. The caption: “Some gifts are worth the wait. @Ethan_Vance_LS”

The top comment was from @Future_Counselor: “That clover is worth my entire law school tuition. Guess even Harvard-bound prodigies can’t resist a little sparkle?”

My fingers were numb as I typed a reply: “That’s mine.”

The screen went black the second I hit send.

Battery zero.

The emergency lights overhead hummed, casting JFK’s Terminal 3 in a hazy twilight. I could hear ground crew cursing the storm in Spanish. I buried my face in my scarf, the wool fibers soaking up a warm, wet sting.

In that moment of total darkness, I heard something inside my chest shatter.

It wasn't my heart.

It was the filter I’d been seeing him through.

…

Hour 26 of being stranded. A FedEx package arrived at the terminal.

Inside was my backup phone―James, our family’s butler, was never anything but efficient. I powered it on. 37 unread messages flooded in. Not a single one was from Ethan.

A new report came in from my father’s personal physician: Coronary bypass surgery was a success. He’s been moved to the ICU for observation.

I leaned against the cool glass of a duty-free shop, refreshing iMessage over and over.

The last text I’d sent him the night before still had the “Delivered” tag. “Dad had a heart attack. I’m stuck at JFK. Can you please call me?”

Delivered. Not read.

But he’d been on TikTok. A notification showed he had just liked Mia’s latest post: a team photo from their victory celebration. She was leaning against his shoulder, holding a crystal trophy engraved with “National Champions.”

I found the contact saved as “E” and hit call.

It rang seven times before going to voicemail. His perfectly crafted, calm voice filled my ear: “This is Ethan Vance. I am currently preparing for my Harvard Law School interviews. Please leave a message.”

Preparing for his Harvard interviews.

I hung up and opened my airline app. The blizzard had canceled three thousand flights on the East Coast. The earliest available seat was in four days.

Just then, a new message popped up.

An unknown number: “Heard you’re stuck at JFK. Need a lift?”

It came with a photo: a satellite image of the massive cyclonic storm swallowing New York City.

I frowned. “Who is this?”

“Julian. From the charging station.”

My mind flashed back 12 hours. A man in a cashmere coat handed me his satellite phone, his eyes catching the message on my screen about my father’s critical condition. He didn’t ask a single question.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. “Can you get me a departure clearance?”

“No. But my jet is taking off from Teterboro in twenty minutes. I’m making a stop in Boston to drop off a file. There’s an empty seat.”

I stared at his message.

The first rule of my Upper East Side upbringing: Never accept favors from strange men.

The second rule: When necessary, forget the first.

“What’s the catch?” I typed.

“You owe me a coffee. Pay me back when we land.”

Five minutes later, a black Suburban plowed through the snowdrifts to the departures curb. A uniformed driver opened the door. “Miss Sterling? Mr. Thorne sent me to take you to Teterboro.”