The elevator doors slid open, and there he was—Brandon, taller, sharper, wrapped in a charcoal suit like armor. Five years vanished in a heartbeat. I froze, champagne flute trembling in hand. He didn’t recognize me. How could he? The curves were gone, the diner uniform replaced by silk and stilettos. But my pulse still remembered his touch, that one perfect night after I pulled him from the wreckage of his car, bleeding and half-dead on the Queensboro Bridge.

He stepped forward, eyes scanning me with polite indifference. 'You’re handling the gala setup?' His voice—deep, controlled—sent heat through my veins. I nodded, forcing a professional smile. 'Scarlett Reyes. Yes, Mr. Vale.'

A beat passed. Then his phone buzzed. A photo preview flashed: Lily, grinning in her school play costume. My breath caught. He glanced at it, then back at me. 'My niece,' he said casually. Lie. She was his daughter. And he had no idea.