The Manhattan skyline glittered like scattered diamonds against the October twilight, but from the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Winters penthouse, even that breathtaking view paled in comparison to the opulence within. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic rainbows across marble floors, while arrangements of white orchids and roses—each bloom costing more than most people's weekly salary—transformed our home into something from a fairy tale.
Tomorrow would be perfect. It had to be.
I stood in the center of our private ballroom, watching the army of event coordinators put finishing touches on the elaborate decorations for my engagement party. Everything was exactly as I had dreamed since I was fifteen—white silk draped from the ceiling like clouds, gold accents catching the light, and a champagne fountain that probably cost more than a luxury car.
"Miss Winters, where would you like the ice sculpture?"
I turned to find Marcus, our head event coordinator, gesturing toward a stunning ice carving of intertwined hearts. Even in the controlled climate of our penthouse, I could see the delicate condensation beginning to form on its surface.
"Near the champagne fountain, please," I replied, smoothing down my cream silk dress—one of three outfits I'd change into tonight for the rehearsal dinner. "And make sure the lighting hits it just right. I want it to sparkle."
"Of course, Miss. Everything must be perfect for the future Mrs. Morrison."
Mrs. Morrison. Even now, hearing it made my heart flutter with a mixture of excitement and disbelief. After seven years of dating Blake, countless society events where I stood by his side as his girlfriend, tomorrow I would finally become his fiancée. And in six months, his wife.
The sound of heels clicking against marble drew my attention. My adoptive mother, Eleanor Winters, glided toward me with the kind of effortless elegance that came from fifty-five years of old money breeding. Her silver hair was pulled back in a perfect chignon, and her black Chanel suit fit her tall, willowy frame like it had been painted on. Even at this hour, her makeup was flawless, not a single line out of place.
"Darling, you look absolutely radiant," she said, air-kissing both my cheeks in the practiced way of Manhattan's elite. But something in her tone felt different tonight—cooler, more calculated than usual.
"Thank you, Mother." I had learned long ago to call her that, though the word still felt foreign on my tongue after twelve years. "Everything looks perfect, doesn't it?"
Eleanor's ice-blue eyes swept across the ballroom with an appraising gaze. "Of course it does. The Winters family doesn't do anything less than perfection. You know how important tomorrow is, don't you, Scarlett?"
There it was again—that strange edge to her voice. "Of course. It's my engagement party."
"Yes, but it's so much more than that." She placed a perfectly manicured hand on my shoulder, her grip just a fraction too firm. "This union between our families... it will benefit everyone involved. Your father and I have worked very hard to make this happen."
Something cold settled in my stomach at her words. "Make this happen? But Blake and I—"
"Have been dating for seven years, yes. But marriages like this, Scarlett, they're about more than just feelings. They're about legacy. About securing our family's future." Her smile was warm, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You understand that, don't you? You've always been such a good daughter. So obedient. So grateful for everything we've given you."
The words hit like a slap, even though her tone remained pleasant. Grateful. As if my engagement to Blake was another charity they were bestowing upon their adopted daughter.
"I am grateful," I said quietly, hating how small my voice sounded. "For everything. You and Father saved me from that orphanage, gave me a family, a home—"
"Exactly." Eleanor squeezed my shoulder once more before releasing me. "And tomorrow, you'll show that gratitude by doing your duty. The merger between Winters Industries and Morrison Holdings will benefit both families immensely."
Merger. The word sat heavy in my chest. Was that what my marriage was to them? A business transaction?
Before I could respond, the sound of the elevator chiming announced a new arrival. My heart leaped as I recognized the familiar rhythm of footsteps crossing the marble foyer.
"There's my beautiful fiancée," Blake Morrison's warm voice called out, and I felt my worries dissolve as they always did when he appeared.
He strode into the ballroom like he owned the world—which, as heir to Morrison Holdings, he practically did. At twenty-eight, Blake had the kind of classical good looks that belonged on magazine covers: dark brown hair that always fell perfectly across his forehead, warm amber eyes, and a smile that had been charming Manhattan socialites since he was old enough to attend galas.
Tonight he looked particularly devastating in his navy Tom Ford suit, the one I'd helped him pick out last month. The memory of that afternoon—laughing together in the boutique, him spinning me around in front of the mirrors—made my chest warm with affection.
"Blake," I breathed, turning toward him like a flower toward sunlight.
He crossed the room in quick strides and swept me into his arms, spinning me once before setting me down gently. His hands settled on my waist, familiar and possessive in a way that still made my pulse quicken after all these years.
"You look absolutely stunning," he murmured, his voice dropping to that intimate tone he used when we were alone. "That dress is perfect on you."
I had spent hours choosing this particular dress—a cream silk number that hugged my curves without being too revealing, appropriate for the society matron I would soon become. The fact that he noticed sent warmth flooding through me.
"Thank you. You look pretty handsome yourself." I reached up to straighten his tie, a gesture so familiar it felt like muscle memory. "I was starting to worry you wouldn't make it in time for the rehearsal dinner."
Something flickered across his expression—too quick for me to read—before his smile returned full force. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. Sorry I'm running late. Got caught up in some business calls."
"Always working," I teased, but part of me was proud of his dedication. Blake had been groomed from birth to take over Morrison Holdings, and he took that responsibility seriously. It was one of the things I admired most about him.
"Speaking of business," Eleanor interjected smoothly, and I realized she'd been watching our reunion with calculating eyes, "Blake, darling, your father called earlier. Something about finalizing the contract terms?"
Blake's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Everything's handled, Mrs. Winters. The lawyers are reviewing the final documents now."
Contract terms? I looked between them, confused. "What contracts?"
"Nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart," Blake said quickly, pressing a kiss to my temple. "Just boring business stuff. Legal formalities."
Eleanor's smile grew sharper. "Of course. Scarlett has never been interested in the business side of things, have you, dear? She's always been more... domestic in her interests."
The dismissal stung, especially coming so soon after her comments about gratitude and duty. I had a master's degree in art history from Columbia, had volunteered with several major charities, and had been Blake's partner at countless business dinners where I'd charmed his father's associates. But apparently, none of that mattered when it came to "real" business.
"Actually, I'd like to know more about—" I began, but Blake cut me off with another kiss.
"Later, baby. Tonight is about celebrating us, not boring contracts." He spun me around again, and despite my frustration, I couldn't help but smile. This was the Blake I'd fallen in love with at twenty-one—playful, charming, focused entirely on me when we were together.
"Where's Victoria?" I asked, suddenly noticing my step-sister's absence. "She promised she'd be here early to help with the final preparations."
Another look passed between Blake and Eleanor—quick, almost guilty.
"Victoria is... indisposed tonight," Eleanor said carefully. "She's not feeling well. A headache."
That was strange. Victoria never missed social events, especially ones centered around me. As the biological daughter of the Winters family, she'd grown up in this world of charity galas and society dinners, and she thrived on the attention and glamour. The fact that she was missing my engagement party rehearsal seemed completely out of character.
"Is she okay? Maybe I should check on her—"
"No," Eleanor said sharply, then immediately softened her tone. "No, darling, she's resting. You know how she gets when she has one of her migraines. Best to leave her alone."
Blake nodded in agreement, but he wouldn't meet my eyes. "She'll be fine by tomorrow. You know Victoria—she wouldn't miss your big day."
Something felt off about their responses, but before I could push further, the event coordinator approached with a question about the seating arrangements. By the time I finished explaining which society matrons couldn't be seated together due to their latest feuds, the moment had passed.
The next few hours flew by in a whirlwind of final preparations. Caterers arrived with silver trays of hors d'oeuvres, the florists made last-minute adjustments to the centerpieces, and the musicians set up their instruments in the corner. Through it all, Blake stayed by my side, charming everyone he met and making me laugh with his quiet observations about our guests.
This was the man I'd fallen in love with—attentive, funny, protective. When Mrs. Ashworth, one of Manhattan's most notorious gossips, cornered me with probing questions about my "modest background," Blake smoothly redirected the conversation to her daughter's recent divorce scandal. When I worried that the champagne fountain looked lopsided, he assured me it was perfect and distracted me with stories about the disastrous engagement party his cousin had thrown the year before.
"Remember when we talked about having kids?" he murmured during a quiet moment, his arms wrapped around me from behind as we watched the staff make final adjustments to the room. "Little girls with your eyes, boys with my stubborn streak."
My heart melted at the tenderness in his voice. "I remember. Two kids, maybe three if we're feeling ambitious. A house in the Hamptons for summers, annual trips to Europe..."
"The perfect life," he agreed, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "You deserve nothing less, Scarlett. After everything you've been through, everything you've sacrificed... you deserve to be happy."
Sacrificed. The word caught my attention. "What do you mean, sacrificed?"
Blake stiffened slightly behind me. "Nothing specific. Just... you've always put everyone else first. Your family, your friends, me. You deserve to be cherished."
It was a sweet sentiment, but something about the way he said it felt rehearsed, like he'd practiced the words. Before I could analyze the feeling further, the first guests began arriving for the rehearsal dinner.
The next two hours passed in a blur of air kisses, congratulations, and champagne toasts. Manhattan's elite had turned out in force for the event—hedge fund princes, real estate heiresses, tech entrepreneurs, and old money families whose names graced museum wings throughout the city. I floated through the crowd on Blake's arm, accepting congratulations and admiring glances with the grace Eleanor had drilled into me over the years.
"Scarlett, darling, you look absolutely divine," gushed Millicent Ashworth-Pemberton, her jewelry catching the light as she gestured with her champagne flute. "And that ring! Blake certainly knows how to make a statement."
I glanced down at the engagement ring Blake had presented me with six months ago—a flawless five-carat diamond surrounded by smaller stones, set in platinum. It was beautiful, tasteful, and exactly what was expected for a woman of my social position. Sometimes I caught myself staring at it, still unable to believe it was really mine.
"Thank you, Mrs. Ashworth-Pemberton. Blake has exquisite taste."
"Indeed he does," the older woman replied with a meaningful glance at Blake, who was deep in conversation with her husband about some business deal. "You're a very lucky girl, dear. The Morrison boy could have had anyone."
Anyone. The implication hung in the air between us—that as an adopted daughter from humble beginnings, I should be grateful that someone of Blake's caliber had chosen me. I was used to these subtle reminders of my place in this world, but they still stung.
"I'm the lucky one," Blake said, appearing at my side as if he'd sensed the tension. His arm slipped around my waist possessively. "Scarlett is everything I could have asked for in a wife."
His public declaration sent warmth flooding through me, pushing away Mrs. Ashworth-Pemberton's barbed comments. This was why I loved him—he never let anyone make me feel lesser, always stood up for me when the society vultures circled.
As the evening wound down and guests began filtering out into the Manhattan night, I found myself standing alone for the first time all day. Blake was saying goodbye to his business associates, Eleanor was coordinating with the staff about tomorrow's setup, and I had a moment to simply breathe and take in what was happening.
Tomorrow, I would officially become Blake Morrison's fiancée. In six months, I would be his wife. After twelve years of feeling like an outsider in my own family, I would finally belong somewhere completely.
"Scarlett."
I turned to find Eleanor approaching, her expression unreadable in the dim lighting.
"Yes, Mother?"
"I want you to remember something," she said quietly, her voice taking on that strange, cold tone from earlier. "Tomorrow isn't just about you and Blake. It's about our families, our legacy, our future. Don't let emotion cloud your judgment about what really matters."
Before I could ask what she meant, she glided away, leaving me standing alone in the middle of our opulent ballroom with a chill running down my spine that had nothing to do with the October air.
Blake appeared at my side moments later, his hand finding mine naturally. "Ready to call it a night? Big day tomorrow."
I looked up at him—this man who had been my anchor for seven years, who had promised me forever, who would make me his wife in six months—and pushed Eleanor's strange words aside.
"More than ready," I said, squeezing his hand. "I can't wait to be your fiancée."
His smile was blinding, but for just a moment, I could have sworn I saw something else flicker in his amber eyes. Something that looked almost like guilt.
But then he was kissing me softly, and all my worries melted away as they always did in his arms. Tomorrow would be perfect. It had to be.
After all, I'd been waiting for this moment my entire life.