Chapter 1 

Dottie

The low thrum of a bass-boosted "Jingle Bell Rock" vibrates through the soles of my sensible-yet-chic ankle boots. It’s the kind of sound that promises a migraine later, but for now, it’s the heartbeat of a successful event. Or, at least, an event that looks successful. 

From my vantage point near a ridiculously oversized poinsettia display, I can see it all: the sea of expensive suits and sequined dresses, the glitter of the faux snow dusting the chandeliers, the buttery glow of the thousand-dollar uplighting I fought tooth and nail to keep in the budget.

Everything is moving according to the ten-page master schedule clipped to my tablet. The catering staff glides through the crowd, their silver trays laden with bacon-wrapped figs. The ice sculpture—a surprisingly elegant reindeer that cost more than my monthly rent—is melting at precisely the predicted rate. I’m a conductor, and this corporate holiday party is my orchestra. A chaotic, slightly drunk orchestra, but mine nonetheless.

My phone buzzes in my blazer pocket, a vibration customized for one person only. I slip behind a velvet curtain that smells faintly of dust and pine-scented air freshener.

"Everything okay, Mrs. Gable?" I keep my voice low.

"Right as rain, dear," her cheerful voice crackles through the phone. "Angela just finished her drawing. It's a portrait of you as a superhero. You have a cape made of spreadsheets."

A laugh, small and genuine, escapes my throat. It feels foreign in this high-strung atmosphere. "My secret identity is out. Is she giving you any trouble with bedtime?"

"Not a peep. She laid out her pajamas—the ones with the little snowmen on them—and told me she has a very important business meeting in Dreamland. Said she learned it from her Aunt Dottie."

A warmth spreads through my belly, potent and immediate. It’s the fuel that gets me through nights like this. "I owe you my life, and at least three extra hours on your check."

"Nonsense. You just get home safe."

We hang up, and I take a moment to press my forehead against the cool glass of the window behind the curtain. Outside, snow flurries dance in the orange glow of the city streetlights. For just a second, the exhaustion hits me like an object on my shoulders. This gig pays well, well enough to cover our bills for the next three months and maybe even get Angela that ridiculously large unicorn she wants for Christmas. But it’s just one gig. My business is still hanging on by a thread, and my dreams of stability feel as distant as ever.

"Excuse me."

The voice is quiet but carries an edge of command that slices through my private moment. I turn, smoothing down my blazer, my professional smile clicking into place. And then I see him.

He’s tall, dressed in a charcoal suit so perfectly tailored it looks like it was stitched onto his body. His hair is dark, his jaw is sharp, and his eyes are a startling, intense blue. They’re also narrowed at me, radiating a level of displeasure that seems wildly out of place amidst the festive cheer. This must be the client. The big one. The one whose company logo is plastered on everything that isn't moving.

"Is there a problem?" I ask, my voice even and calm.

He gestures vaguely toward the bar. "The pinot grigio is two degrees too warm."

I blink. He can’t be serious. "I can assure you, sir, our caterers use state-of-the-art coolers—"

"I did not ask about your caterer's equipment." His voice is flat, devoid of emotion. "I am stating a fact. The wine is improperly chilled. It affects the acidity."

God, give me strength. "I’ll speak to the bartender immediately."

"See that you do." He doesn't move. His gaze sweeps over me, dismissive and assessing, and my smile feels tight at the edges.

This is the part of the job I hate. The condescension from men who think their net worth gives them a Ph.D. in everything. I just need him to move so I can handle this ridiculous non-issue. But he’s still standing there, a thundercloud in a thousand-dollar suit, drawing focus.

And that’s when I see the server. A young kid, maybe nineteen, with a face full of acne and nerves. He’s carrying a tray loaded with flutes for the champagne tower, and his eyes are fixed on the intimidating man in front of me. The client. My client.

The kid’s focus is split. He’s trying to navigate the crowd while also clearly being intimidated by the storm of negative energy radiating from Mr. Perfect Suit. He takes one step too close, his shoe catches on the edge of a rug, and the world shifts into slow motion.

The tray tilts.

A single glass slides, hitting another with a delicate clink that is swallowed by the music.

Then the whole thing goes.

The crash is spectacular. A tidal wave of shattering glass and golden champagne erupts from the ten-tier tower. Gasps ripple through the room. The music screeches to a halt. For a single, horrifying moment, the only sound is the fizz of expensive champagne soaking into a Persian rug I definitely did not budget to replace.

My gaze snaps to the man in front of me. His face is a mask of pure, unadulterated disgust. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jump. He looks at the mess, then at the terrified server who is frozen in a sea of his own making, and then his cold blue eyes land back on me. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. The look says it all: This is your failure.

Every instinct in my body screams. I want to tell him that if he hadn't been standing here being an arrogant prick about wine temperature, none of this would have happened. But I don't.

Instead, a strange calm settles over me. This is what I do. I fix chaos.

I raise my hand to my headset, my voice coming out clear and steady. "Cleanup crew to the main hall, west corner. Bring the large-spill kit. Marco, get the backup sound system queued. I want music back on in sixty seconds."

I turn to the client’s horrified liaison, who looks like she’s about to cry. "It’s just glass and liquid, Helen. We have a full backup of champagne in the kitchen. We’ll have a new, smaller tower built in twenty minutes."

Then I walk over to the server. The poor kid is shaking, his face pale. "Hey," I say softly, putting a hand on his arm. "It's okay. No one's hurt. I need you to go to the back and take a fifteen-minute break. Get some water."

He just stares at me, eyes wide with panic. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Adley. I—"

"It's Dottie. And it was an accident. Now go."

He nods, looking profoundly grateful, and scurries away. My hand drops from his arm and finds a misplaced place card on a nearby cocktail table. My fingers smooth its crisp edge, nudging it a quarter of an inch to the left until it’s perfectly aligned with the corner. An island of order in a sea of bullshit. My internal monologue, however, is a string of curses that would make a sailor blush.

Fuck. Shit. Fuck.

The mess is already being contained. My team is that good. The murmuring crowd is starting to turn back to their conversations as the DJ, bless his heart, fades in a gentle, instrumental version of "White Christmas." Crisis being averted.

I feel a presence beside me and turn. It’s Ben, my lead bartender, wiping his hands on a towel.

"Hell of a crash," he says, his eyes finding the grumpy billionaire, who is now speaking in low, sharp tones to his liaison. "What was that guy's problem, anyway?"

"Apparently," I say, my voice dripping with forced professionalism, "the pinot grigio was two degrees too warm."

Ben snorts. "What an asshole."

"The biggest," I agree, watching as the man turns and stalks toward the exit without a backward glance. Good riddance.

"Do you know who that was?" Ben asks, an odd note in his voice.

I shake my head, my focus already shifting back to the revised timeline in my head. "No idea. Just another rich client with a god complex."

Ben lets out a low whistle. "Dottie. That was Dennis Weaver. You know, the tech billionaire. Weaver Industries. He owns this whole damn building."

The name hangs in the air. Dennis Weaver. I've seen it in business journals, heard it whispered in tones of awe and envy. A name synonymous with untouchable wealth and ruthless efficiency. And he thinks my wine is too warm.

My chest feels tight, like my bra is suddenly two sizes too small. Shit.