Mabel
I hate sequins. They scratch my skin like wool sweaters on a hot day.
I also hate galas, crowds and the fake laughter that echoes through rooms like this. But most of all…
I hate this night.
I knew it would be hell the moment my father—Sir Isaac Grayson, political mastermind and professional manipulator—smirked and said, "If you don't attend, I'll pause your mother's treatment."
That's the kind of man he is. Charming, right?
So here I am, suffocating in gold sequins that itches and feels two sizes too small, while my shoes seem to have a personal vendetta against my toes.
Fantastic.
And yes, that was sarcasm.
Across the ballroom, chandeliers drip light like liquid gold, spilling over a sea of powerful men and women pretending to care about each other's lives and maintaining fake smiles like they wouldn't stab each other in the back over their own personal interests.
The only thing–well, person–who makes this horrible night slightly tolerable would be my ever-devoted boyfriend, Luke Robertson, currently standing beside me and flashing his killer businessman smile at the high-profile guests in the ballroom.
Luke's the only one who can get me to do things I absolutely despise, like attending this gala. He promised to stay by my side all night, knowing how much I loathe these social circuses and for now, he's keeping that promise.
As if reading my mind, Luke leans toward me, the smell of his cologne cutting through the thick perfume and champagne haze. "Just smile for tonight, babe," he murmurs, lips grazing my cheek. "It'll be over soon."
So, I plaster on the fakest smile I can muster, just to reassure him. Satisfied, Luke turns back to the man he's been speaking to—a man I hadn't even noticed approach because I was too busy sulking.
A waiter passes, and I snag a glass of champagne. I take a few sips and sigh in bliss.
If there's anything I love as passionately as I hate galas, it's champagne. I. Love. Champagne. No kidding.
There's just something about this pale, golden fizz that feels like instant therapy. I could literally write an essay on my love for champagne and it still wouldn't be enough.
But Luke's phone buzzing cuts my love letter short. "Give me a sec," he says, before disappearing into the crowd.
Great. My human comfort blanket just ditched me.
And to make things worse, his conversation partner turns toward me—the talkative old man I recognize as one of my father's associates. A man who never runs out of opinions or the urge to share them.
"Miss Grayson?" he calls out.
I force a polite smile. He clears his throat and dives right in.
"I was hoping to hear your thoughts on the new law passed this week."
See what I mean?
Why would anyone think I care about a law I didn't even know existed until two seconds ago?
Just because my father's a politician, everyone assumes I'm dying to discuss policy. Spoiler alert: I'm not.
I let out a short, awkward laugh and scramble for something to say while scanning the crowd for Luke, my one possible escape route.
But he's nowhere in sight.
When I finally spot him, my breath stills.
He's at the far end of the ballroom, leaning way too close to a woman in red—a woman whose laughter sounds like a dying seal and whose botox hasn't quite settled yet. Her hand brushes his chest and his head dips lower.
My chest tightens, but I force myself to stay calm. It's probably harmless. Just talking. Totally fine.
I turn back to the associate still waiting for an answer I don't have. Desperate to change the subject, I smile and blurt, "How's your wife?"
He blinks, confused, but I barely care. My attention's locked on Luke's hand, now resting on Botox Barbie's waist as he whispers something into her ear.
Suddenly the room feels stifling. I grip my champagne glass so hard I'm surprised it doesn't shatter.
Glaring at Luke's face, I down the rest of the drink—it tastes less like luxury and more like carbonated regret.
Handing the empty glass to a passing waiter, I excuse myself and head straight toward Luke.
I'm not sure if he spots me coming, but the moment I start moving, he and Botox Barbie make a beeline for the exit.
I speed up, weaving through gowns and tuxedos, but by the time I reach the doors, they're gone.
I rush outside, my heels betraying me with every step. The cold air slaps my face as I scan the parking lot.
Then I see it—Luke's sleek black car, engine running, the woman seated comfortably beside him like some smug passenger princess.
Before I can reach them, the car speeds off, leaving me in a swirl of dust and disbelief.
For a long, ridiculous moment, I just stand there—frozen, humiliated, glittering under the cruel glare of the moonlight.
He left me. Just like that.
A bitter laugh slips out. "Cool. Amazing. Love that for me."
I tug off my torture devices—aka heels— wincing as the cold concrete kisses my bare feet. My phone buzzes weakly in my bag.
I bring it out and stare at the low battery notification. Five percent is all I have left. Great.
I pray it lasts long enough to book a ride home seeing that I just got ditched by my actual ride; otherwise, I'll end up haunting this ballroom forever like some cursed princess.
I open the ride-share app, holding my breath as it loads. Miraculously, it does.
I book a black SUV (high end all the way)—arrival in three minutes—and before I can see more details, the screen goes black.
Perfect.
At least the ride's booked. I sigh, crossing my arms to keep warm as guests stroll out laughing, hugging, and driving off to their glamorous lives.
Meanwhile, I'm barefoot, freezing, heartbroken, and humiliated.
Then a slick black SUV pulls up, its engine purring like a smug cat.
Finally.
I stride up to it, open the door, toss my heels inside, and slide into the backseat. "You're my ride, right?" I mutter. "Let's go. The faster we leave, the bigger your tip."
But the car doesn't move.
The driver turns slightly, and I finally see him. He's not wearing an Uber badge, no cheap uniform and certainly no phone mount. Just a tailored black suit, a gold wristwatch—probably real, given the vibe—and a quiet aura of power.
Also, he's hot. Like dangerously hot.
He blinks at me. "Excuse me?"
"I said, let's go," I repeat, waving a hand impatiently. "I'll give you the address on the way. Just drive. Chop chop!"
He keeps staring, his blue cold eyes, clearly studying me, like he's deciding whether I'm crazy or just lost.
After a beat, he exhales slowly, turns forward, and starts the engine.
I sink into the seat, watching the city blur past in streaks of light as exhaustion settle in. Tonight is a total disaster.
***
Thirty minutes later, we pull up in front of my house–well, my father's actually. I grab my purse and shoes, and reach for the door handle.
"Thanks," I mumble.
Just as I'm stepping out, his voice cuts through the air—deep, calm, and laced with something unreadable.
"You booked a ride," he says. "But not this one."
Something cold slides down my spine. I freeze, then force a nervous laugh. "Okay. Weird thing to say, but sure."
I get out and hurry inside without looking back, heart thudding louder than it should.
***
Later that night, with my phone finally charged, I open the app to leave a review only to find a
notification waiting.
*RIDE CANCELLED. DRIVER WAITED. NO-SHOW.*
My fingers still.
Wait… if that wasn't my ride… then whose car was I in?