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PROLOGUE
ASFELICITYCORNINGpicked up the wastebasket from beside the client’s writing desk, a glint of gold script on glossy ebony caught her attention.
You are invited to attend London’s premier Benefit for the Arts Gala
The gala was being held at a swanky art gallery in Chelsea two weeks from now.
This is the way, the devilish dreamer on her shoulder whispered. That voice was delusional, always telling her tokeep trying...find a way.
Given how many obstacles the universe had put in her way, she was ready to throw in the towel on her fashion-design aspirations. She was only twenty-four, but after two years of knocking on fashion house doors that remained firmly closed, she was growing disheartened.
She understood that dropping out of her degree—and having books and books of sketches with only a few physical samples—meant she wasn’t seen as a viable candidate for even an unpaid intern position. The designers needed to see more commitment to her craft, but she couldn’t help feeling like she had already missed the boat.
If you could show them what you’re capable of,the voice persisted,someone might finally take you seriously.
“No,” she said aloud.
Risking her current job was not the way to go about it. Housekeeping might not be the most glamorous job in the world, but the agency catered to wealthy clients. That was why she had taken it. She often got to put away samples, shopping, and dry cleaning from top designers. Aside from the occasional post-party apocalypse, the work was basic and physical but undemanding. The pay covered her bills. More or less. London was obscenely expensive.
Felicity actually lived a penurious existence. Most artists did. She didn’t mind going without lattes or streaming services so she could spend her scant disposable income on bolts of silk and high-end notions, though. Building out her collection was her way forward. It was her passion. It was the only entertainment she needed.
However, her life had fallen into a rut. Every day was a grind that only seemed to entrench her deeper into a place she didn’t want to be. She had been thinking of going back to school to finish her degree, which she had waffled her way through the first time round. She had been persuaded by her grandmother into thinking a practical business degree was the way to go, then later switched to visual arts before knocking off to take care of Granny until she had passed away.
Going back to school would create the Catch-22 of having no time outside of her classes and day job to sew. Plus, most fashion houses were looking for a post-graduate degree. It would be years before she was remotely “qualified” in the eyes of top designers.
With a sigh of frustration, Felicity carried the wastebasket into the housekeeping closet, but she didn’t immediately empty it into the larger bin. First, she plucked out the invitation and set it on the shelf of cleaning products.
She wasn’ttakingit, she told her squirming conscience. She was merely not throwing it away.
Maybe the owner of this three-bedroom townhome—a well-known supermodel—had tossed it by accident. She had recently been cast in a blockbuster movie and was out of town. That was likely why she had discarded the invitation despite the message on the back.
Delia Chevron and date, courtesy of Brightest Star Studio
The studio must have picked up the ticket price for her. How nice to be so rich and famous you could throw away a dinner worth a few hundred pounds. Such a waste. A crime, really, when good people went hungry every day.
People like you, the voice whispered.
“Shut up,” she hissed.
But when Felicity left for the day, she told herself she was only taking the card as inspiration. Somedayshewould be invited to an event like this—or one of her gowns would, she thought wryly.
But she knew better. She knew she would take a risk that could go horribly awry.
On the other hand, it could change her life.
As it turned out, it did both.
CHAPTER ONE
SAINTMONTGOMERYWOULDhave been ushered down the red carpet with or without a date, but he was solo tonight, so he chose the less conspicuous side entrance where he was funneled like a steer for branding past a thinner bank of photographers. He couldn’t avoid the barrage of questions on his recent breakup, however.
“Saint! Are you and Julie still speaking? What happened?”
He should have brought a date. A new face would have changed the narrative, and God knew he was tired of this one.
Historically, his romantic liaisons were casual and pleasant and ended without conflict. If asked about a particular breakup, he would claim “artistic differences” or some other facetious explanation.
His affair with Julie, however, was the gift that kept on giving. Or taking, as it turned out.
