Three Years Earlier.
I met Miles Morretti at a charity gala my father's company was sponsoring. I was twenty-three, fresh out of business school with my MBA still feeling new and impressive, trying desperately to prove I belonged in the corporate world rather than just being there because my last name. I was a Clement, and my father owned half the commercial real estate in the city. It was one of those insufferably boring events that the wealthy inflict upon themselves in the name of philanthropy-overpriced tickets, rubber chicken dinner, endless speeches about giving back.
Everyone was there to see and be seen, to network and make connections, to show off their designer gowns and expensive watches. The actual charity being supported-something about funding arts education in underprivileged schools-seemed almost secondary to the social peacocking.
I was standing by the champagne table, trying to look interested while a middle-aged executive droned on about market trends, when I first saw Miles. He was across the ballroom, surrounded by a small crowd of people who all seemed to lean in when he spoke. Even from a distance, he was magnetic.
Miles was twenty-eight, already making a name for himself in commercial real estate development. He had this way of commanding a room without seeming to try-broad shoulders filling out his custom tuxedo perfectly, dark hair styled with just enough product to look intentional but not overdone, a smile that was bright enough to sell and genuine enough to trust. When he laughed at something someone said, the whole group laughed with him.
He was exactly the kind of man I'd told myself I wouldn't be interested in. Too smooth. Too confident. Too aware of his own charmAnd then he smiled at me across the champagne table, and I felt something click into place that I'd never felt before. It was like recognition, almost. Like some part of me had been waiting for exactly this moment, this person.
"You look bored," he said, appearing at my elbow with two glasses of champagne before I'd even seen him move. Up close, he was even more devastating-warm brown eyes with gold flecks, a jawline that could cut glass, and that smile aimed directly at me like I was the only person in the room.
"I am bored," I admitted, taking the glass he offered. Might as well be honest-I'd never been good at playing coy. "These events are always the same. Same people, same conversations, same rubber chicken dinner. Same speech about how we're all making a difference when really we're just drinking expensive wine and congratulating ourselves for writing checks.
" He laughed, a genuine sound that made his eyes crinkle at the corners in a way that made him look younger, less polished, more real. "Cynical and honest. I like that. Most people at these things pretend they're having the time of their lives." "Are you not having the time of your life?"
I asked, raising an eyebrow. "You looked pretty popular over there.""That's business, not pleasure," he said, leaning in conspiratorially. His cologne was subtle and expensive-sandalwood and something citrus. "I'm here because I need to be seen supporting the right causes. Build relationships with the right people. But between you and me? I'd rather be literally anywhere else."
"Then let's make it different," he said, setting down both our glasses and offering me his hand. "Dance with me."
