Chapter 2

The heavy soundproof door of The Cellar swung shut, drowning the wet streets of SOHO beneath a wave of smoky bourbon, dim amber lighting, and the low rumble of a double bass.

Daphne tossed her leather trench coat onto the circular leather banquette at the back of the room. She dropped into the booth, her body sinking into the worn leather as if all her strings had been cut at once.

"Drink," Hazel said, slamming a heavy shot glass of Don Julio 1942 onto the table in front of her.

Hazel was wearing an oversized vintage leather jacket and combat boots, her chin-length hair messy in that effortless, downtown artist way. Across from her, Averie sat holding a delicate martini glass, her soft gray eyes full of quiet worry.

"Are you okay?" Averie asked, leaning across the table to touch Daphne's freezing fingers. "Your hands are shaking."

"I'm fine," Daphne said. Her voice rasped. She picked up the shot glass and threw it back in one clean swallow.

The liquor torched its way down her throat, settling like a fist of fire in her empty stomach. Her heartbeat, erratic and wild for the last hour, finally found a steady, thumping rhythm.

"I didn't just dump him," Daphne said, setting the glass down with a dull thud. "I baptized Grisel in six hundred dollars worth of champagne."

Hazel let out a loud, barking laugh, slapping the table with both palms. "Holy shit! You actually did it! Tell me someone recorded it. Please tell me her fake eyelashes fell off!"

"Both of them did," Daphne muttered, a grim smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "And she was wearing my mother's ruby pendant."

Hazel's smile vanished instantly. Her brown eyes flared with rage. "That piece of human garbage. Destin stole Auntie's jewelry for that little branch-family leech?"

"The Knight family isn't going to let this go quietly, Daphne," Averie warned softly. She bit her lower lip, pulling her cashmere cardigan tighter around herself. "Grisel is third branch, but she's still a Knight. Their family controls half the private equity on the East Coast. If her mother goes to the elders..."

"Let them," Daphne sneered. She poured herself a second shot from the bottle on the table. "Barack sold me out five years ago to keep his pathetic company afloat, and Destin thought I was a helpless heiress he could step on. They think because I've been living on campus in Boston, I forgot how to fight."

"So what's the plan?" Hazel asked, leaning in, her eyes dancing with dangerous excitement. "Are we slashing Destin's tires, or am I calling some guys from Brooklyn to break his golf clubs?"

"No," Daphne said, staring into the amber liquid. "That's small-time."

"Then what?" Averie asked.

Daphne's finger traced the rim of the glass. The alcohol was mixing with the bitter humiliation of the night, warping her sharp, analytical mind into something reckless.

"Grisel thinks she's untouchable because of her last name," Daphne said slowly. "She parades around Manhattan acting like she's royalty, all because she has an uncle who runs Knight Enterprises."

"Cousin," Hazel corrected. "Her uncle passed away. Her cousin is running the show now."

"Right," Daphne murmured. A wild, toxic idea took root in her head. "Bennet Knight."

Averie stopped breathing. The glass in her hand wobbled. "Daphne... do not say that name out loud."

"Why not?" Daphne challenged, her chin lifting.

"Because Bennet isn't Destin!" Averie hissed, leaning forward, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper. "He isn't some spoiled trust-fund frat boy. He took over Knight Enterprises at twenty-six after his father stepped down. He gutted three rival hedge funds before breakfast last year. The man is a predator. People on Wall Street don't even look him in the eye during board meetings."

"He's thirty-two, unmarried, and completely clean of scandals," Daphne said, her eyes flashing with a manic, drunken brilliance. "And Grisel treats him like a god."

"Daphne, no," Averie begged, grabbing her wrist. "You don't play with a man like that. He'll eat you alive."

"I'm not playing with him," Daphne said, her voice rising over the music. She stood up, kicking off her heels and stepping right onto the leather banquette.

"Daphne, get down!" Hazel laughed, though she looked half-terrified.

Daphne stood tall on the booth, looking over the dimly lit bar like a general surveying a battlefield. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders, her cheeks flushed with liquor.

"Three months!" she declared loudly, pointing a finger toward the ceiling. "I'm going to take Bennet. I'm going to make him fall so hard he begs to sign the marriage license. And then, at the next family dinner, Grisel is going to have to pour my goddamn tea and call me 'Ma'am'!"

A few patrons at the neighboring tables turned around, staring at her as if she had escaped from an asylum.

"Sit your drunk ass down!" Averie pleaded, yanking on the hem of Daphne's black skirt.

Daphne dropped back onto the cushions, laughing breathlessly as the room spun in lazy, pleasant circles. "I mean it. If I'm going to ruin Destin, I'm going to do it from the top of the food chain."

"You're completely out of your mind," Hazel said, though she raised her glass in a salute. "To my insane best friend, the future Mrs. Bennet."

"Shut up," Daphne groaned, pressing her palms to her burning cheeks. "I need to pee. If I stay in this booth another second, I'm going to pass out."

"I'll come with you," Averie said, starting to get up.

"No, stay." Daphne waved her off, stumbling as she pushed past the low wooden table. "I'm fine. Just need cold water on my face."

She navigated the narrow, dark corridor leading toward the back of the speakeasy. The lighting back here was almost non-existent, just a single vintage sconce casting long, amber shadows across the brick walls.

The floor tilted beneath her stockinged feet. Daphne reached out to brace herself against the wall, but her foot caught on an uneven floorboard.

"Damn it—"

She pitched forward, completely losing her balance.

Instead of hitting the cold, concrete floor, her forehead slammed directly into a wall of solid, unyielding muscle.

The breath was knocked out of her lungs. Her fingers scrambled wildly for purchase, clutching the lapels of an exceptionally fine, heavy wool coat.

A faint, suffocating scent wrapped around her instantly.

Cold winter air, rich cedarwood, and the dark, smoky bite of high-end Kentucky bourbon.