The morning light filtering through Blake's floor-to-ceiling windows should have felt like a promise of the perfect day ahead. Instead, as I lay in his king-sized bed wrapped in Egyptian cotton sheets that probably cost more than most people's rent, something felt distinctly off.
Blake's penthouse apartment in Tribeca was a testament to masculine luxury—dark hardwood floors, leather furniture, and abstract art that his interior designer had assured him was "investment-worthy." Usually, I loved staying here. The view of the Hudson River was breathtaking, and there was something intimate about waking up in his space, surrounded by his things. But this morning, even the familiar comfort felt strange.
Maybe it was the conversation with Eleanor last night, or Blake's odd behavior about those mysterious contracts, but I couldn't shake the feeling that everyone was keeping secrets from me.
"Good morning, beautiful."
I turned to find Blake emerging from his walk-in closet, already dressed in a charcoal gray suit that fit his tall frame perfectly. His dark hair was still damp from the shower, and he looked every inch the successful businessman he was destined to become.
"Morning," I replied, pulling his silk sheet up to cover myself. "You're up early for a Saturday."
"Big day," he said, but his smile seemed forced. "Our engagement party is in..." He checked his Rolex. "Exactly eleven hours. I want everything to be perfect for you."
There was something in his tone that didn't quite ring true, but before I could analyze it further, he leaned down to kiss me. His lips were warm and familiar, tasting of mint and expensive coffee, and for a moment I let myself sink into the comfort of his touch.
"I made coffee," he murmured against my lips. "That blend you like from the little place in SoHo."
"You're spoiling me," I said, but I was touched by his thoughtfulness. Blake wasn't naturally domestic—he'd grown up with staff to handle everything—so gestures like this meant more coming from him.
"Nothing's too good for my fiancée." But even as he said the words, his phone buzzed loudly on the nightstand, and I saw his entire body tense.
The phone buzzed again. Then again.
Blake's eyes darted to the device, and something that looked almost like panic flashed across his features before he forced another smile.
"Probably just work stuff," he said casually, but he made no move to check the messages. "You know how it is."
I did know. Blake's phone was constantly buzzing with calls and texts from business associates, lawyers, and investors. Morrison Holdings was expanding into new markets, and as the heir apparent, Blake was involved in every major decision. Usually, he checked his messages immediately—it was one of his few flaws, his inability to disconnect from work even during our private moments.
The phone buzzed a fourth time.
"You should probably get that," I said, settling back against the pillows. "Might be important."
"Later," Blake said quickly, turning away from the nightstand. "Right now, I want to focus on you. On us. On tonight."
But his movements were agitated as he adjusted his tie in the mirror, and I caught him glancing at the phone again when he thought I wasn't looking.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
"Seriously, Blake, just check it. I don't mind."
"I said later, Scarlett." His tone was sharper than I'd ever heard it, and I blinked in surprise. In seven years of dating, Blake had never snapped at me like that.
He must have realized how harsh he sounded because his expression immediately softened. "Sorry, baby. I'm just stressed about tonight. Want everything to be perfect, you know? Why don't you get dressed, and I'll bring you coffee?"
He practically fled toward the kitchen, leaving me alone with his still-buzzing phone.
I stared at the device, my journalist instincts from my Columbia days starting to wake up. Blake Morrison didn't ignore his phone. Ever. In all our years together, I'd seen him take calls during romantic dinners, business meetings, even family funerals. The fact that he was actively avoiding it now was completely out of character.
The phone lit up with another message, and this time I could see part of the preview on the lock screen:
"...need to talk about tonight..."
My heart started beating faster. Another message appeared:
"...can't keep doing this..."
And then:
"...she doesn't suspect anything, does she?"
The blood in my veins turned to ice water. She doesn't suspect anything. Who was "she"? And what wasn't I supposed to suspect?
Before I could see more, the screen went dark again. But those few words had shifted something fundamental in my chest. For the first time in seven years, I found myself questioning Blake Morrison.
"Here's your coffee, gorgeous."
I jumped, my heart hammering as Blake reappeared with a steaming mug in hand. Had he seen me looking at his phone? His expression seemed normal—loving, even—but there was something watchful in his amber eyes.
"Thank you," I managed, accepting the mug with hands that I hoped weren't shaking. The coffee was perfect, exactly how I liked it, but it tasted like ash in my mouth.
"So," Blake said, settling on the edge of the bed, "what do you want to do until it's time to get ready? We could go for a walk in Central Park, or check out that new gallery you mentioned..."
He was trying too hard to be normal, and it was making my skin crawl. The Blake I knew was confident, sometimes even a little arrogant. This overly attentive version felt like an act.
"Actually," I said carefully, "I think I should head home soon. Victoria wasn't feeling well last night, and I want to check on her before the party."
Something flickered across Blake's face—relief? Guilt? "Of course. You're such a good sister."
Sister. The word always stung a little, because Victoria and I had never felt like real sisters despite living in the same house for twelve years. She was Eleanor and Charles's biological daughter, their precious princess who could do no wrong. I was the grateful charity case who should be thankful for their generosity.
But Blake didn't know about those complicated dynamics. Or maybe he did, and just didn't care.
His phone buzzed again, and this time I watched his reaction carefully. His jaw tightened, his fingers flexed like he was fighting the urge to grab the device, and his eyes darted toward it involuntarily.
"Are you sure you don't need to get that?" I asked innocently. "It seems urgent."
"It's nothing," he said firmly. "Probably just Marcus from the office. You know how he is—treats everything like a crisis."
But Marcus was Blake's assistant, and his messages usually showed up with his name. These messages had no contact name visible, just a phone number. Which meant either Blake hadn't saved the contact, or he'd deliberately hidden the identity.
"Blake," I said slowly, setting down my coffee cup, "is everything okay? You seem... different today."
"Different how?" His laugh sounded forced. "I'm just nervous about tonight. Want to make sure everything goes smoothly for you."
"You keep saying that, but you've never been nervous about social events before. You practically grew up at these kinds of parties."
"This one's special," he said, reaching over to stroke my cheek. "It's our engagement party. The beginning of our life together. I want it to be perfect because you deserve perfect."
The words should have melted my heart. Instead, they felt like a script he'd memorized. When had Blake Morrison, the man who'd swept me off my feet with his spontaneous romantic gestures, become someone who spoke in rehearsed platitudes?
"Blake—"
"I should let you get dressed," he said abruptly, standing up. "Don't want you to be late getting ready. Tonight's going to be incredible."
He leaned down to kiss me again, and I let him, but something had fundamentally shifted. As his lips moved against mine, all I could think about were those text messages. She doesn't suspect anything, does she?
After Blake left for the office—or wherever he was really going—I took my time getting dressed and calling for my driver. The ride from Tribeca back to the Upper East Side gave me too much time to think, and by the time we pulled up to the Winters mansion, I'd convinced myself I was being paranoid.
Blake was stressed. That was all. Big business deals, engagement pressure, family expectations—it was enough to make anyone act strangely. The text messages were probably about some surprise he was planning, or a business deal he didn't want to worry me with.
But as I walked through the front doors of the only home I'd known since I was ten years old, those rationalizations started crumbling.
"Scarlett? Is that you?"
Victoria's voice drifted down from the second-floor landing, and I looked up to see my step-sister descending the grand staircase. For someone who'd supposedly been too sick with a migraine to attend last night's rehearsal dinner, she looked remarkably well. Her dark hair was perfectly styled, her makeup flawless, and she was wearing a new dress I'd never seen before—a designer piece that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary.
"Hi, Vic. Feeling better?"
"Much, thank you." She reached the bottom of the stairs and immediately enveloped me in a hug that felt more performance than genuine affection. "I'm so sorry I missed last night. I was absolutely miserable."
"No problem. These things happen." But I was studying her face carefully, looking for signs of the migraine that had supposedly kept her bedridden. Her eyes were clear, her complexion glowing, and she had that particular energy that came from a full night's sleep.
"I felt terrible about it," Victoria continued, linking her arm through mine in an unusually sisterly gesture. "Your engagement party rehearsal, and I wasn't there to support you. Some sister I am, right?"
Since when did Victoria care about being supportive? In twelve years of living together, I could count on one hand the number of times she'd gone out of her way to help me with anything. She wasn't cruel, exactly, but she'd always been distant, focused on her own social circle and activities.
"It's fine, really. You didn't miss much."
"Still." Victoria's grip on my arm tightened slightly. "I want to make it up to you. Why don't we spend the day together? Get our nails done, maybe do some shopping? I know you probably have everything ready for tonight, but there's always something we could find."
I stared at her, genuinely confused. Victoria suggesting we spend time together was like the sun deciding to rise in the west. We inhabited the same house, attended the same social events, but we'd never been close. She had her friends from prep school and society circles, and I had... well, mostly I'd had Blake.
"That's sweet of you to offer, but I have some errands to run—"
"Oh, come on!" Victoria's smile was blinding, but there was something almost desperate underneath it. "How often do we get to do sister things? Besides, I have something important I want to talk to you about."
The way she said "important" sent a chill down my spine. "What kind of important?"
Victoria glanced around the foyer as if checking for eavesdroppers, then leaned in closer. "It's about Blake."
My blood turned to ice water. "What about Blake?"
"Not here," she whispered urgently. "Too many ears. Come up to my room?"
I followed her up the familiar staircase, my mind racing. Victoria wanted to talk about Blake. Blake had been acting strange all morning. The mysterious text messages. The way he'd avoided his phone. The guilty looks between him and Eleanor last night.
Victoria's bedroom was a study in feminine luxury—pale pink silk wallpaper, antique furniture, and enough designer clothes to stock a small boutique. She closed the door behind us and turned to face me with an expression I'd never seen before. Almost... sympathetic.
"Scarlett, I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me."
"Okay..." I said carefully.
"Are you happy? Really, truly happy with Blake?"
The question caught me completely off guard. "Of course I'm happy. Why would you ask that?"
Victoria sank down onto her velvet bench, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. "It's just... I've been watching you two together, and sometimes it seems like..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Never mind. I'm probably wrong."
"Victoria, what are you trying to say?"
"It's just that you seem to do all the giving in the relationship," she said softly. "You're always accommodating his schedule, his preferences, his career. When was the last time he did something just for you? Something that required him to sacrifice or compromise?"
The question hit closer to home than I wanted to admit. When had Blake last changed his plans for me? Canceled a business meeting to spend time together? Even chosen a restaurant based on my preferences rather than his?
"That's not... relationships require compromise from both people," I said weakly.
"Do they? Because from where I sit, it looks like you do all the compromising." Victoria's voice was gentle, but her words cut deep. "And last night, at the rehearsal dinner..."
"What about last night?"
"The way he kept checking his phone, even when you were talking to guests. The way he dismissed you when you tried to ask about those business contracts. The way he couldn't seem to focus on you at your own engagement celebration."
I wanted to argue, but the observations were uncomfortably accurate. Blake had seemed distracted last night, more interested in his business conversations than in celebrating with me.
"And then there's the way Mother and Father have been acting," Victoria continued. "All that talk about mergers and duty and family obligations. Don't you find it strange that they're more excited about the business aspects of your marriage than the romantic ones?"
"They're just practical people—"
"Scarlett." Victoria reached over and took my hands, her grip surprisingly warm. "I love you. You're my sister, even if we're not blood related. And I'm worried about you."
The words should have been comforting. Instead, they made my skin crawl. Victoria had never expressed sisterly love for me before. Never worried about my wellbeing. Never shown this kind of concern for my happiness.
So why was she doing it now?
"What exactly are you worried about?" I asked carefully.
Victoria hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. "I'm worried that everyone around you is making choices for you. That you're so focused on being the perfect daughter, the perfect fiancée, that you're not asking yourself what you actually want."
"I want Blake," I said immediately. "I've wanted him for seven years."
"But do you want the marriage that's being planned for you? All the business obligations, the social expectations, the way you'll essentially become an accessory to his life rather than living your own?"
Her words were like arrows finding their mark. How many times had Eleanor referred to me as "doing my duty"? How many conversations had Blake and his father had about business arrangements, as if I weren't even there?
"You're overthinking this," I said, but my voice lacked conviction.
"Am I?" Victoria stood up and walked to her window, gazing out at the gardens below. "Scarlett, can I tell you something? About the night you first brought Blake home to meet the family?"
I nodded, though she wasn't looking at me.
"I was seventeen, and you were twenty-one. I had such a crush on him—I thought he was the most handsome, sophisticated man I'd ever seen. But you know what I remember most about that night?"
"What?"
"The way he looked at you when he thought no one was watching. Like you were something precious he couldn't quite believe he'd found. His whole face would light up when you laughed, and he hung on every word you said."
A bittersweet smile crossed my face. I remembered that night too—how nervous I'd been to introduce Blake to my family, how perfectly he'd charmed everyone, how he'd held my hand under the dinner table when Eleanor asked pointed questions about his intentions.
"But last night," Victoria continued quietly, "I didn't see any of that. He was polite, charming, said all the right things. But he looked at you like... like you were a beautiful painting he owned, rather than the woman he was desperately in love with."
The observation hit me like a physical blow. When had Blake stopped looking at me like I was precious? When had his smiles become polite rather than genuine? When had our conversations become surface-level pleasantries instead of the deep, meaningful talks we used to share?
"I'm probably wrong," Victoria said quickly, turning back to face me. "I'm sure it's just pre-wedding nerves, or business stress, or any number of perfectly normal things. But Scarlett... promise me you'll pay attention tonight. Really look at how he treats you, how he talks about your future together. Make sure you're marrying the man you fell in love with, not just going through the motions because it's expected."
I stared at her, my mind reeling. This conversation was so far from anything I'd expected from Victoria that I felt like I was in some alternate reality.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.
Victoria's expression grew sad. "Because I've watched you try so hard to earn love your whole life. From Mother and Father, from Blake, from everyone. And you deserve someone who loves you without you having to earn it. Someone who chooses you not because it's convenient or profitable, but because they can't imagine their life without you."
She crossed the room and hugged me again, and this time it felt more genuine.
"Just promise me you'll trust your instincts tonight," she whispered. "If something feels wrong, don't ignore it just to keep everyone else happy."
As I walked back to my own room to begin getting ready for the engagement party, Victoria's words echoed in my mind. But so did Blake's text messages. She doesn't suspect anything, does she?
What if Victoria's sudden concern wasn't sisterly love at all? What if it was something else entirely?
What if she was trying to plant seeds of doubt in my mind for her own reasons?
And what if Blake really was hiding something from me?
For the first time in seven years, I found myself questioning everything I thought I knew about the people I loved most.
The scary part was, I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answers.