Chapter 2

Aveline

My head felt like it had been split open with a rusty axe, and every muscle in my body screamed in protest as I tried to sit up. The morning light filtering through the hotel curtains was offensively bright, and the taste in my mouth suggested I'd been gargling with battery acid.

Jesus fucking Christ. What exactly did I do?

The events of last night came flooding back in horrifying detail—me climbing on top of a drunk stranger, riding him while he was barely conscious, taking what I wanted while he was too intoxicated to stop me.

I was a monster.

I glanced at the man still sleeping beside me, his back turned to me, dark hair tousled against the white pillowcase. The scent of expensive whiskey still clung to him, evidence of how drunk he'd been. How vulnerable. How unable to consent.

And I'd used him anyway.

The welcome card on the nightstand mocked me with its elegant script: "Welcome, Mr. Blackwell."

Not Sterling. Blackwell.

I'd walked into the wrong room and sexually assaulted a complete stranger.

The shame was suffocating, but I needed to be absolutely certain. I had to confirm what I already suspected before the full weight of my mistake crushed me.

I slipped out of the room as quietly as possible and looked up at the brass numbers on the door: 1202.

Room 1202. But Grandmother had told me 1205.

I stood there like an idiot, staring at the numbers that spelled out my complete and utter failure. I'd managed to fuck up a simple room number and accidentally rape someone in the process. Congratulations, Aveline. Six years of higher education and you can't even read basic hotel signage.

What a spectacular way to cap off my already pathetic existence.

I slipped back into the room, moving as quietly as possible. The man hadn't stirred. I dressed quickly, trying not to look at the evidence of what I'd done. My inner thighs were sticky, my legs shaky—reminders of how thoroughly I'd used his body while he was unconscious.

What kind of person was I? Sure, I'd had my share of romantic dalliances over the past six years, but nothing as despicable as this. The man had been drowning in alcohol, mumbling incoherently, and I'd taken advantage of him like some kind of predator.

I found hotel stationary and tried to write something, anything, that might make this less terrible:

To Mr. Blackwell,

I am deeply sorry for last night. I made a terrible mistake and I...

What could I possibly say? Sorry I sexually assaulted you? Sorry I mistook you for my husband and used your body like a fucking toy?

I crumpled up the paper and tried again:

I sincerely apologize for last night's confusion. This is compensation for any... inconvenience.

Inconvenience. Like rape was an inconvenience.

I twisted the ring off my finger—white gold with a perfectly cut emerald center, surrounded by tiny diamonds in a classical Art Deco pattern. It had taken me months to perfect the design, countless hours sketching and re-sketching until every line was exactly right. The only piece I'd kept from my previous work.

The craftsmanship was flawless, worth more than most people made in a year. But even this wasn't enough compensation for what I'd done. Nothing would ever be enough. Still, it was all I could offer without completely destroying myself in the process.

I left the ring on the note and slipped out of the room before he could wake up and see the monster who'd violated him.

The elevator ride down felt like a descent into hell. I checked my reflection in the mirrored walls and saw exactly what I was: a rapist in designer clothes.

By the time I reached the Hartwell family's Upper East Side townhouse, the shame had crystallized into something harder, angrier.

That water. The water Vivian had insisted I drink yesterday before leaving for the hotel. It was my first day back home to see Grandmother, and they'd all been there in the living room—the whole dysfunctional family gathering to welcome me home. Vivian had swept in with that sickeningly sweet smile, her platinum blonde hair styled in perfect waves, her lips painted that aggressive red shade she always wore to make herself look more sophisticated than her twenty-two years. Designer everything, from her Louboutin heels to her Cartier watch, all paid for with money that should have been mine.

"Oh, Aveline, you look so tired from your flight," she'd cooed, pressing the crystal glass into my hands. "Drink up, you need to stay hydrated."

The bitch had drugged me. And because of her manipulation, I'd done something unforgivable to an innocent stranger.

I stood outside the four-story brownstone, looking at its carefully maintained facade and small front garden. Respectable enough from the outside, but I could see the signs of decline if you knew where to look—the slightly peeling paint around the windows, the cheaper replacement door hardware, the way the garden looked a little too manicured to hide the fact that they'd had to let the landscaper go.

Still playing the part of Manhattan gentry, but barely hanging on. How fucking fitting.

I pushed through the front door and headed straight for the back terrace, needing air and space before I did something I'd regret even more than last night.

I lit a cigarette with shaking hands, the first one I'd touched in years. Some situations called for exceptions. Like when you'd just sexually assaulted a drunk stranger because your stepsister had drugged you into compliance.

After a few minutes, I stubbed out the cigarette and went inside to find Grandmother Eleanor in the dining room, picking at her lunch with the careful movements of someone much older than her seventy-five years. She looked up when I entered, her face lighting up with genuine warmth.

"Aveline, darling. How did the divorce discussion go? What was he like?"

Like a knife to the gut. If she knew what I'd actually done...

Before I could answer, Monica swept into the room with Vivian trailing behind her like a nervous shadow.

My stepmother had clearly spent the morning at her usual spa appointments—her graying hair was freshly colored and blown out in an attempt at youthful volume, though it only emphasized the extra weight she'd gained around her face and neck. Her designer dress was expertly tailored to hide her expanding waistline, but the way she held herself with forced elegance made her look like she was playing dress-up in someone else's life.

"Well, well," Monica drawled, her voice dripping with false sweetness as she adjusted her oversized Hermès scarf—probably to camouflage her double chin. "If it isn't our little world traveler. How lovely to see you again, Mrs. Sterling."

I didn't look up from the tea I was pouring. "You can call me Ms. Reeves."

Vivian settled beside Monica with a smug little smile. "Oh, Aveline, you look so tired. Didn't your meeting go well last night? I mean, even a disabled husband who's never seen you before wouldn't want you, would he?"