Somewhere in the city, inside a glossy high-rise apartment where envy simmered hotter than the sun, Rachel sat cross-legged on a velvet stool, her ankle swinging with tight impatience.
The skyline blinked through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind her, casting a silver glow over the marble floors.
But it was the cold, blue light from her phone screen that illuminated her face—jaw clenched, brows drawn low, and eyes burning with something far more volatile than mere curiosity.
She'd watched the viral clip ten times.
Then ten more.
Each time, she paused at the exact same frame: Roman Thompson, the most powerful bachelor in the country, leaning toward a girl with tears on her cheeks—his hand curled gently around hers like they were the only two people left in the world.
And that girl?
That pitiful, small-voiced, teary-eyed, public mess of a girl?
Julie.
Rachel's nostrils flared as her eyes narrowed to slits.
