Three years earlier
Sienna would never forget the first time Alessandro Castellano spoke to her.
She'd been working the Hartwell Foundation gala—one of dozens of servers in black and white, invisible to everyone who mattered. Twenty-five years old, three months out of a bad breakup, working two jobs to pay student loans while living in a studio with mice and a radiator that clanged like murder.
The gala was at The Plaza. Chandeliers and champagne and women in gowns costing more than Sienna's annual salary. She'd been assigned to the champagne station, pouring endless glasses for people who didn't say thank you, didn't make eye contact, didn't see her at all.
Except one did.
"Excuse me, what's your name?"
Sienna had looked up to find the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. Dark hair, gray eyes, expensive tux. He was smiling. At her.
"Sienna."
"That's beautiful. Italian?"
"My mother liked the sound of it."
