Chapter 1 - THE TENSION IN THE RED GOWNThe air in the grand ballroom of the Zenith Hotel seemed to drop ten degrees the moment Ava Sterling took in the scene before her.
Four pairs of identical, dark eyes looked up at her with a mixture of childlike defiance and absolute innocence. Between them sat a faded five-dollar bill, three quarters, and a small yellow plastic anchor button. And towering slightly over the service table was Liam Brooks—a man wearing the dark-gray uniform and ironized name badge of an on-site maintenance technician.
Ava’s chest tightened. She had spent the last four years building a fortress of wealth and corporate protection around her quadruplets, keeping them insulated from the brutal realities of her high-society divorce. Yet here they were, trading pocket change with a blue-collar worker and introducing him as their father.
"Girls," Ava said, her voice dropping into that smooth, controlled cadence that usually commanded boardrooms, though it trembled slightly around the edges. "Step away from the table. Right now."
"We hired him, Mom," Lily insisted, planting her small hands on her navy-blue dress. "We paid for an hour. The contract is legal."
"It's not a legal contract, Lily," Ava murmured, stepping forward and sweeping the coins and the yellow anchor button into her gloved hand. She looked up, her gaze locking onto Liam’s calm, weathered face. "I am deeply sorry. My daughters have an overactive imagination, and they clearly overstepped their boundaries."
Liam didn't flinch. He picked up his cold cup of tea, took a slow sip, and set it back down. "They didn't bother me, Mrs. Sterling. They just wanted someone to sit with them."
Ava blinked, startled that he knew her name. Then she realized the media had plastered her face across every business journal in the city this week due to the upcoming Sterling-Vance corporate merger. Of course he knew who she was.
Before Ava could offer a tip to compensate him for his time, heavy, polished leather shoes clicked against the marble floor behind her.
"Is there a problem here, Ava?"
The voice was smooth, patrician, and dripping with condescension. Julian Vance—Ava’s fiancé, a man whose family owned half the commercial real estate downtown—stepped into the light of the crystal chandeliers. His charcoal tuxedo was immaculate, his silver-rimmed glasses catching the glare of the overhead lights. His eyes swept over Liam’s maintenance jacket with open, clinical disgust.
"No problem at all, Julian," Ava said quickly, turning to shield her daughters. "The girls were just wandering. We’re heading back to our table."
Julian’s gaze lingered on Liam’s badge, reading the faded ink: L. Brooks - Facilities. A cold, amused smile touched the corners of Julian’s mouth. He adjusted his cufflinks, looking down his nose at Liam as if inspecting a stain on a Persian rug.
"Ah. Facility maintenance," Julian said smoothly, his voice carrying just enough to draw the curious glances of nearby elites. "Tell me, Brooks—does your hourly wage cover sneaking into private VIP galas to entertain wealthy children, or is this a special sideline gig? Because if the hotel management is letting manual laborers mingle with guests, we might need to have a serious conversation with the general manager about security protocols."
The ballroom around them seemed to quiet. Heads turned. Whispers began to rustle through the silk-and-tuxedo crowd like wind through dry leaves.
Liam slowly stood up. He wasn't wearing a designer suit, but at six-foot-two, with broad shoulders built from years of heavy lifting and a gaze carved out of quiet resilience, he completely overshadowed Julian Vance.
"If you're worried about security, Mr. Vance," Liam said, his voice entirely steady, "you should probably check your own back door. Because it's a lot easier for a stranger to walk into a room like this than it is for a father to buy his way into his children's lives."
May you like
Julian’s smile vanished, replaced by a dark, furious flush. But before Julian could open his mouth to lash out, six-year-old Iris stepped forward, pointed a tiny finger straight at Julian’s chest, and dropped a sentence that brought the entire ballroom to a grinding halt.
"He's not a stranger," Iris piped up loudly. "He's much nicer than the man who said we were too many."
