Falling for the Disgraced Heir

The clink of crystal glasses, the hum of violins, and the endless chatter of the city's elite-it was just another Friday night at the Grand Regent Hotel.

Julia Bailey balanced a silver tray of champagne flutes against her hip, weaving through the crowd of tuxedos and glittering gowns. Her feet ached from twelve hours of double shifts, but she forced her lips into a polite smile. Tips were good tonight. Rent was due tomorrow. Survival didn't wait for exhaustion.

"Careful, sweetheart," a banker sneered as she passed, his hand brushing too close to her waist. Julia shifted away, masking her disgust. Same story, different night.

She was just about to duck behind the velvet curtain toward the staff area when raised voices split the air.

"Enough, Brandon!"

Julia turned her head instinctively. The source was hard to miss: a man in his late twenties, tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in an undone tuxedo like he'd just crawled out of a whiskey bottle. His dark hair fell across his forehead in careless waves, and a crooked grin tugged his lips-arrogant, careless.

Across from him stood a man twice his age, cold in his immaculate tailored suit. His voice carried like a gavel in court.

"You're finished. From this moment, you are no longer my son."

The crowd gasped.

Cameras flashed. Phones shot up. In a room full of predators, blood had just been spilled.

Julia froze, champagne glasses trembling on her tray.

The younger man-Brandon Hughes, if the whispers were correct-let out a laugh so bitter it cut through the music. "You've been waiting for this moment, haven't you, old man? Tossing me out like trash so you can polish your precious company image."

Mr. Hughes's glare could have frozen fire. "Trash doesn't belong in the Hughes family. Consider this your last night as a Hughes."

He turned sharply, leaving Brandon surrounded by flashing bulbs and murmuring sharks in designer heels.

Julia's brows furrowed. Hughes. Of course. The family that owned half the city. Corporate royalty. She'd heard enough horror stories from her father, who'd lost his job years ago in one of their ruthless cutbacks.

So this was the youngest son-the "playboy heir" the tabloids loved to mock.

Her lips tightened. Another spoiled brat getting a taste of reality. Good for him.

Brandon raised a glass from the nearest table, downing it in one swallow, then slammed it down with a reckless grin. "Ladies and gentlemen, drink up! Hughes money doesn't pay for me anymore. Consider this my last round on the house!"

Laughter erupted. Some sneered, others clapped, most just filmed the spectacle.

Julia shook her head. Pathetic. She slipped back toward the staff area. It wasn't her circus. Rich people destroyed themselves every day. She had her own battles-rent, debt, and a landlord with zero patience.

By midnight, the ballroom was almost empty. Julia stacked trays in the kitchen, exhaustion dragging at her shoulders. Just one more shift tomorrow, and maybe she'd scrape enough together to cover rent.

"Bailey!" her