The High Price Of Father's Freedom

Abbey Wynn tucked her clutch under her arm and pressed her back against the cool plaster of the wall, trying to make herself as two-dimensional as possible. She wasn't here for the conversation. She was here because the invitation had promised an open buffet, and her refrigerator currently contained a half-empty jar of pickles and a carton of milk that expired two days ago.

She adjusted the lapel of her blazer. It was a thrift store find, oversized to hide the fact that the silk dress underneath had been washed by hand so many times the hem was starting to fray. A far cry from the bespoke suits she'd catalogued in her old life as an assistant at Sotheby's, before her father's name became a headline and her career became collateral damage. Now, law school was her only path to redemption-his and hers. She watched the crowd of law students and junior associates mingle, their laughter sharp and jagged against the low hum of jazz.

"You're blocking the shrimp," a voice said.

Abbey flinched. She stepped aside, murmuring an apology to a girl in a red dress who didn't even look at her. Abbey checked her phone. Twenty minutes. She just needed to stay twenty more minutes to justify the subway fare, then she could wrap a few sliders in a napkin and leave.

"Abbey? Abbey Wynn?"

Her stomach tightened. She recognized the voice before she saw the face. It was a guy from her Torts class, someone whose name she had intentionally forgotten. She turned, plastering on a polite, hollow smile.

"Hi," she said.

"I didn't think you came to these things," he said, his eyes scanning her outfit with a little too much scrutiny. "You're usually... gone."

"I have a lot of studying to do," Abbey said, shifting her weight. "Actually, I was just heading out."

"Wait, hold on."

The crowd parted like the Red Sea, but not for her. Miles Sterling was cutting through the room, a glass of amber liquid in one hand and an expression of supreme confidence on his face. He was loud, wealthy, and had decided three weeks ago that Abbey was his new project.

"Abbey!" Miles boomed. Heads turned. Abbey felt the heat creep up her neck, a physical rash of embarrassment. "I knew I'd find you near the food. You have a metabolism I'd kill for."

He stopped in front of her, blocking her exit. He smelled of expensive gin and entitlement.

"Hi, Miles," she said, her voice tight.

"Here." He thrust a flute of champagne at her. "Ditch that white wine. It smells like vinegar. My dad's private stock is behind the bar."

"I'm fine, really," Abbey said, keeping her hands clasped. "I was just leaving."

"Leaving? The night hasn't even started." Miles stepped closer, invading her personal space. He reached out, his fingers brushing her elbow. "Come on. Let me drive you home later. The Ferrari is out front."

"No, thank you," Abbey said. She took a step back.