The lounge of the bar was too beautiful for someone like her.
Everything gleamed—polished marble floors, gold-edged glass tables, low amber lights that softened sharp edges and made even sins look elegant. Music pulsed beneath the hum of quiet conversations, just loud enough to drown out honesty.
Diane Jenkins stepped inside as if she belonged there.
Her heels clicked confidently against the floor, posture straight, chin lifted. Anyone watching would have seen a woman in control—expensively dressed, perfectly styled, unbothered.
Only she knew how hard it was not to look around.
Not to search for familiar faces.
Not to flinch at the thought that someone might recognize her—not as Joseph Hamilton's fiancée, not as a Jenkins heiress, but as what she had become.
Disposable.
She slid into a seat at the bar and ordered a drink she couldn't afford without glancing at the price.
This is temporary, she told herself.
Everything is temporary.
