Chapter 1

Chelsea

The air in the ballroom is ripe with the scent of lilies and ambition. It’s a cloying combination, the kind that coats the back of your throat and makes you want to down the cheap champagne they’re serving in expensive flutes. 

I watch the parade of fake smiles and air kisses, my own pinned in place, and my fingers find the intricate lines of the tattoos on my arm. My anchor. My armor.

This is the seventh annual "Best of the Bay" Childcare Awards, and it’s exactly as insufferable as the previous six. It’s a night where we’re all supposed to pretend we’re colleagues, not competitors who would slit each other’s throats for a five-star Yelp review and a feature in the Bay Area Parent magazine.

And across the sea of rented tuxedos and sequins, I see him. Blake Morrison. The man who represents every single thing I’ve fought against my entire life.

He stands in a small circle of admirers, looking effortlessly perfect in a suit that probably cost more than my first year of business insurance. His dirty blonde hair is artfully tousled, and even from here, I can see the glint of his ridiculously expensive watch. 

He laughs at something someone says, and the dimple in his left cheek makes an appearance. I hate that dimple. I hate it with the fire of a thousand suns.

For three years, his "Bright Beginnings" has been the thorn in my side, the pristinely manicured, trust-fund-baby version of my "Little Dreamers Academy." He built his empire on a foundation of family money; I built mine on sleepless nights, instant ramen, and sheer, bloody-minded will. He talks about pedagogy and developmental frameworks; I talk about wiping noses, kissing scraped knees, and knowing which kid needs a hug versus which one needs five minutes of quiet time with a worn-out copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

We are rivals. It’s a clean, simple fact. 

The only thing that isn’t simple is the infuriating, electric hum that zings through the air whenever we’re in the room together. It feels like this now, a low-frequency thrum beneath the drone of the keynote speaker, a string pulled taut between us across the crowded ballroom.

My assistant and best friend, Maya, materializes at my elbow. "Don't look now," she mutters, "but Trust Fund Ken is staring over here."

"I'm not looking," I lie, my eyes still locked on him. As if he can feel my stare, his gaze lifts and collides with mine. His smile tightens, just a fraction, the dimple vanishing. The polite mask of the golden boy is replaced by the cool assessment of the competitor. I lift my champagne flute in a mock toast, my own smile all teeth. He gives me a slow, deliberate nod before turning back to his sycophants.

My fingers trace the looping script of the word ‘invincible’ hidden among the henna-style swirls on my skin. A reminder.

After an eternity of dry chicken and even drier speeches, they get to our category: "Excellence in Early Childhood Education." My name is called as a nominee. A smattering of polite applause. Then his name is called. The applause is thunderous. Of course it is. The Morrisons probably bought a dozen tables.

My stomach twists into a hard, painful knot. This award means more than a trophy I’ll stick in my office. It’s validation. It’s a middle finger to every person who ever looked at a foster kid and saw a statistic. It’s everything.

"And the winner is…" The presenter, a local news anchor with impossibly white teeth, tears open the envelope. The pause is pure theater. "Bright Beginnings Academy!"

The room erupts. I force my face into a neutral expression, clapping along with everyone else as Blake makes his way to the stage. The sound of my own polite applause is a dull roar in my ears. He accepts the award, gives a charming, self-deprecating speech about teamwork and passion, and thanks his parents for their unwavering support. I almost gag on my champagne.

I should leave. Just get up, walk out, and go home to my empty apartment. But I can't. That would be admitting defeat. So I stay, a statue of good sportsmanship, while my insides curdle.

When he steps off the stage, his path back to his table takes him directly past mine. He could have gone another way. He chooses not to. He stops, the picture of magnanimity, the heavy glass award clutched in one hand.

"Chelsea," he says, his voice smooth and measured. "Tough break. You run a great program. Really, it’s amazing what you’ve accomplished with the resources you have."

The condescension is so thick I could choke on it. My nails dig into my palm. "Thanks, Blake. It must be nice to have unlimited resources to play with."

A muscle in his perfect jaw clenches. The first crack in his control. "It's not about resources. It's about methodology. Structure. Perhaps you should consider…"

"Consider what?" I stand up, slowly. We're closer now. Close enough that I can smell the clean, crisp scent of his cologne, something expensive and understated that smells like money and confidence. "Let me guess. A new spreadsheet for playtime?"

"A five-year plan," he counters, his voice dropping lower, losing its public-facing charm. "Something beyond just…winging it with passion."

"Passion is what built my business. Passion is what connects with those kids. Something you wouldn't understand."

"And structure is what will make it last," he shoots back, taking a small step forward, invading my space. His eyes, a startlingly bright green, are intense. The air crackles. The background noise of the gala fades away until it's just the two of us in our own little bubble of animosity. "You can't build a legacy on feelings, Chelsea. Sooner or later, you'll burn out."

His arrogance is a physical thing, pressing in on me. The words are a direct hit on my deepest fear—that I’m not enough, that what I’ve built is fragile. My breath hitches. He’s too close, his six-foot-two frame looming over me. I can feel the heat rolling off him. For a split second, my gaze drops to his mouth, and a strange, unwelcome thought flickers through my mind.

He must see something in my eyes, because a flicker of triumph crosses his face. He gestures with the hand holding his wine glass. "All I'm saying is—"

The back of his hand clips my arm. It's a careless, dismissive movement. Time seems to slow down as the glass of red wine tilts, a perfect ruby arc slicing through the air. It hits the front of my white dress, a shocking, violent splash of crimson against the pristine fabric.

A collective gasp ripples from the tables around us.

The wine is cold against my skin, a stark contrast to the hot, sick rage that floods my entire being. I look down at the stain, a jagged, ugly bloom spreading across my chest like a wound. Then I look up at him.

He’s frozen, his eyes wide, the empty wine glass still in his hand. "Chelsea, I… I'm so sorry. It was an accident."

But I don't hear an apology. I hear dismissal. I see three years of him looking down on me, of him representing a world that was never meant for me. I see the culmination of a thousand tiny cuts.

My actions are pure instinct. There's no thought. No plan. Just a raw, primal need to wipe that look of shocked pity off his perfect face.

My hand closes around the stem of my champagne flute. With a movement that is surprisingly steady, I take one step forward, closing the last bit of distance between us. I raise the glass. And I tip it, slowly, deliberately, over his perfectly styled dirty blonde hair.

The champagne is cold and bubbly. It runs in rivulets down his forehead, past his sharp cheekbones, dripping from the end of his aristocratic nose. The room goes utterly silent. All I can hear is the frantic beat of my own heart and the fizz of champagne bubbles in his hair.

He stares at me,  green eyes blazing with a mixture of shock and something else, something dark and dangerous. He doesn't move. He just watches me, dripping and furious.

And in that moment, standing in the wreckage of our professional reputations, with the entire Bay Area childcare community as our audience, the only thing I can think is: Now we're even.

I place my empty flute on the table with a decisive click, turn on my heel, and walk away, the feeling of a hundred pairs of eyes on my back and the spreading, cold stain on my dress.