The diamond on Chloe Morgan’s finger was a weapon. A ten-carat, emerald-cut declaration of war on mediocrity, it caught the light from the ballroom’s crystal chandeliers and fractured it into a thousand tiny, blinding promises.
Promises of a corner office, of summers in the Hamptons, of a future so meticulously curated it felt less like a life and more like a corporate merger.
“To Chloe,” Bennett Sterling III announced, his voice a smooth, practiced baritone that cut effortlessly through the appreciative murmur of New York’s legal and financial elite. He held his champagne flute aloft, the other hand resting possessively on the small of her back.
“The sharpest mind at Sterling, Hewitt & Finch. The most beautiful woman in this room. And, as of tonight, the future Mrs. Bennett Sterling. We’re not just building a life; we’re building a dynasty.”
A polite ripple of applause. Chloe summoned a smile that felt like it was cracking the enamel on her teeth.
She was a show pony in a four-thousand-dollar dress, her mane professionally styled, her hooves polished. Bennett squeezed her waist, a proprietary gesture that was meant to be affectionate but felt like a brand.
“Smile, darling,” he murmured, his breath smelling of vintage champagne and ambition. “Our photographer is over by the raw bar.”
She smiled wider, tipping her glass toward him in a perfect imitation of a happy fiancée. On the surface, this was it: the pinnacle.
A rising star in corporate law, engaged to the firm’s heir apparent, celebrating in a ballroom overlooking Central Park. She had fought, clawed, and sacrificed for this.
She’d billed more hours, won more unwinnable cases, and slept less than anyone she knew to earn her place in this gilded cage. So why did it feel like the bars were closing in?
Her phone, tucked away in a tiny, useless beaded clutch, began to vibrate against her hip. A frantic, insistent buzz.
Probably a junior associate with a last-minute question about the McDowell acquisition. It could wait. Nothing could pierce this bubble.
Bennett was now deep in conversation with a federal judge, his hand still clamped to her back, pulling her into the orbit of their conversation about tort reform. Chloe’s gaze drifted over the perfectly coiffed heads, the glittering jewelry, the air thick with the scent of lilies and money.
She felt a profound, aching disconnect, as if she were watching a movie of her own life. The protagonist was brilliant, successful, and deeply, terrifyingly numb.
The buzzing in her purse wouldn’t stop. It was a frantic, desperate rhythm, a Morse code signal from a world away.
Annoyance pricked at her. With a murmured, “Excuse me for a moment,” she slipped away from Bennett’s side, ignoring his flicker of irritation.
She found a small alcove near the coat check, the party’s roar softening to a dull thrum. She pulled out her phone.
The screen read: AUNT CAROL.
Her heart gave a painful lurch. Aunt Carol never called after 9 p.m.
Not unless…
“Carol?” Chloe answered, her voice tight.
“Chloe, thank God.” Her aunt’s voice was a ragged tear in the smooth fabric of the evening. She was crying.
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry to call you tonight, of all nights, but I didn’t know who else…”
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Chloe’s carefully constructed composure began to crumble.
“It’s the store, sweetie. The Next Chapter.” A sob broke through the line.
“The bank called. The final notice came today. The roof… that last storm, it just… it caved in over the poetry section. The water damage is everywhere. We’re ruined, Chloe. They’re going to foreclose.”
The words hit her like a physical blow. The Next Chapter. Her grandmother’s bookstore.
The dusty, magical, ink-and-paper sanctuary that had raised her. The scent of old books and lemon polish flooded her memory, so potent it momentarily erased the cloying smell of lilies.