The Winters ballroom had been transformed into something from a fairy tale, exactly as I'd dreamed. A thousand white roses cascaded from crystal chandeliers, their petals scattered across marble floors that gleamed like mirrors under the soft golden lighting. The champagne fountain sparkled like liquid starlight, and Manhattan's elite glittered in their finest designer gowns and tailored tuxedos.
This was supposed to be the most magical night of my life.
Instead, I felt like I was watching it all through a sheet of glass, present but somehow disconnected from the celebration swirling around me. Every smile felt forced, every laugh sounded hollow, and the diamond engagement ring on my finger seemed to weigh a thousand pounds.
"Darling, you look absolutely radiant," gushed Mrs. Pemberton-Ashworth, her third glass of champagne making her even more effusive than usual. "And that dress! Valentino?"
"Thank you. Yes, custom Valentino," I replied automatically, smoothing down the ivory silk that had been fitted to perfection. The dress was a masterpiece—off-shoulder, with delicate beading that caught the light with every movement. I should have felt like a princess wearing it.
Instead, I felt like I was in costume for a play I no longer wanted to perform in.
"Blake is such a lucky man," she continued, her eyes scanning the crowd. "Speaking of which, where is the man of the hour? I haven't seen him in ages."
That was a good question. Where was Blake? I'd lost track of him somewhere between the arrival of the Rothschild family and the toast from his father about "merging dynasties." For the past hour, I'd been floating through conversations on autopilot, accepting congratulations and admiring glances while my mind churned with questions I didn't want to answer.
"I'm sure he's around somewhere," I said with a smile that felt like plastic. "You know how these events are—so many people to greet."
But even as I said it, unease settled deeper in my stomach. At our rehearsal dinner last night, Blake had been attentive, charming, focused on me despite those strange moments of tension. Tonight, he seemed to be everywhere except by my side.
"Scarlett, there you are!"
I turned to find my father, Charles Winters, approaching with his usual commanding presence. At sixty-two, he still cut an impressive figure in his Tom Ford tuxedo, his silver hair perfectly styled and his blue eyes sharp with intelligence. As the founder and CEO of Winters Industries, he was used to being the most important person in any room.
"Father," I said, accepting his brief hug. "The party is beautiful. Thank you for making this so special."
"Nothing's too good for my daughter," he replied, though something in his tone felt rehearsed. "I wanted to introduce you to some associates of mine. The Nakamura family from Tokyo—they're interested in our Pacific expansion."
Business. Even at my engagement party, it always came back to business.
"Of course," I said, because that's what was expected. Charles guided me through the crowd toward a distinguished Japanese couple, and I slipped back into my role as the perfect daughter, charming and gracious and utterly forgettable.
The next thirty minutes passed in a blur of introductions, business small talk, and political discussions that I wasn't really qualified to participate in but had learned to navigate through years of practice. Through it all, I found myself scanning the crowd for Blake's familiar figure.
Where was he?
"Excuse me for just a moment," I finally said to Mr. Nakamura, who was explaining something about shipping regulations. "I need to powder my nose."
I slipped away from the group and began making my way through the crowd, smiling and nodding at familiar faces but not stopping to chat. Blake had to be somewhere in this ballroom. He wouldn't just disappear from his own engagement party.
Would he?
The thought sent a chill through me that had nothing to do with the October air drifting in from the terrace doors.
I checked the bar—no Blake, just his college roommate Marcus holding court with a group of hedge fund princes. I scanned the terrace—empty except for a few couples enjoying the night air and the glittering view of Central Park. I even peeked into Father's study, thinking Blake might have been pulled into a business conversation.
Nothing.
It was as if Blake Morrison had simply vanished from his own engagement party.
My heart was starting to race, and not in a good way. This morning's strange behavior, those mysterious text messages, Victoria's unsettling conversation about love and duty—it was all swirling together into a growing sense of dread that I couldn't shake.
Maybe he was upstairs. The Winters mansion had three floors, and while the party was contained to the main level, Blake was familiar enough with the house to have gone upstairs for any number of reasons. Maybe he needed a quiet moment, or maybe someone had pulled him aside for a private conversation.
I made my way to the grand staircase, grateful that most of the guests were focused on the champagne and canapés rather than tracking my movements. The second floor was dimly lit, quiet except for the distant sound of music and laughter drifting up from below.
"Blake?" I called softly, not wanting to disturb any guests who might have wandered up here for quieter conversations.
No answer.
I walked down the familiar hallway, past family portraits and expensive artwork that had watched over my childhood. My heels clicked softly against the hardwood floors, the sound seeming unnaturally loud in the silence.
The guest rooms were all empty, doors standing open to show pristine bedrooms that hadn't been used tonight. Father's home office was dark. Even the library—Blake's favorite room in the house—was deserted.
Maybe he was on the third floor? It seemed unlikely, since that level was mostly unused guest suites and storage rooms, but I was running out of places to look.
As I climbed the narrower staircase to the third floor, I could hear something that made me freeze.
Voices. Low, urgent, coming from the direction of the east wing.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I crept closer, every instinct screaming at me to turn around and go back downstairs. But I couldn't. I needed to know.
The voices were coming from behind the door of what used to be my old art studio—a room I'd converted into a private sanctuary when I was in college, complete with easel and paints and a comfortable reading nook. I hadn't used it in years, but I'd never been able to bring myself to let Eleanor redecorate it.
"...can't keep doing this."
My blood turned to ice water. That was Blake's voice, low and strained in a way I'd never heard before.
"I know, I know. But what choice do we have?" A female voice responded, and my world tilted sideways.
Victoria.
I pressed myself against the wall beside the door, my heart pounding so loud I was sure they'd hear it. What were Blake and Victoria doing alone together on the third floor of the house? What couldn't they keep doing?
"She's going to find out eventually," Blake was saying. "We can't hide this forever."
"We can hide it long enough," Victoria replied. "Just until after the wedding. Once the contracts are signed and the merger is complete, it won't matter anymore."
The merger. Those words from Eleanor last night came flooding back—how this wasn't just about love, but about business arrangements and family legacies.
"I hate lying to her," Blake said, and there was genuine pain in his voice. "She doesn't deserve this."
"She'll be fine," Victoria said dismissively. "Scarlett's always been good at adapting. She'll make the best of it, just like she always does."
Make the best of what? What were they planning? What did Scarlett not deserve?
I leaned closer to the door, straining to hear every word.
"Victoria, I need you to understand something," Blake said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. "After tonight, this has to stop. I can't—we can't—"
"I know," Victoria interrupted. "I know it's complicated. But Blake, what we have... it's real. You can't just turn it off because of some contract marriage."
Contract marriage.
The words hit me like a physical blow. I actually stumbled backward, my hand flying to my mouth to muffle the gasp that threatened to escape.
Contract marriage. That's what Blake thought our relationship was? That's what he'd told Victoria?
"It's not just a contract marriage," Blake protested, but his voice lacked conviction. "I do care about Scarlett. I always have."
"But you're not in love with her," Victoria said softly. "Not the way you're in love with me."
The silence that followed was deafening.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't process what I was hearing.
Blake Morrison—the man I'd loved for seven years, the man I was supposed to marry in six months, the man I'd built my entire future around—was in love with Victoria. My step-sister. And she was in love with him.
"Say it," Victoria whispered. "Tell me you love me."
"Victoria..."
"Please. I need to hear it. Just once before we have to pretend none of this ever happened."
Another silence. Then, in a voice so quiet I almost missed it:
"I love you."
The world exploded into fragments around me. Every happy memory, every shared moment, every dream of our future together—it all shattered like glass hitting concrete.
I must have made a sound, because suddenly the voices inside went quiet.
"Did you hear that?" Victoria whispered.
Panic flooded my system. I couldn't let them find me here. Couldn't face them. Not yet. Not when I felt like I was drowning in the ruins of everything I'd believed about my life.
I turned and ran.
My heels echoed against the hardwood floors as I fled down the hallway, not caring if they heard me now. I needed to get away, needed space to think, needed to figure out how to survive the next five minutes without falling apart completely.
I made it to the staircase before I heard the door to my old studio open behind me.
"Hello? Is someone there?"
Blake's voice, cautious and concerned. I pressed myself against the wall in the shadows of the landing, praying he wouldn't come looking.
"It was probably just the house settling," Victoria said. "These old places make all kinds of noises."
"Maybe we should go back downstairs," Blake suggested. "People will notice if we're both gone much longer."
"You're right. But Blake... what I said before, about after the wedding—"
"Victoria, please. Not now."
I heard their footsteps moving away from the studio, and I finally allowed myself to breathe. But breathing hurt. Everything hurt.
They were in love. Blake and Victoria were in love with each other, and they were talking about my marriage like it was some kind of business arrangement that they had to endure.
How long had this been going on? How long had I been the fool, believing in a love story that was apparently just a carefully orchestrated lie?
I thought about Victoria's conversation with me this afternoon, all her concern about whether I was really happy with Blake. Had she been trying to prepare me for this? Or had she been fishing for information, trying to figure out if I suspected anything?
She doesn't suspect anything, does she?
The text message from this morning suddenly made perfect sense. Blake hadn't been talking to a business associate. He'd been talking to Victoria.
I sank down onto the top step of the staircase, my beautiful Valentino dress pooling around me like spilled cream. The sounds of my engagement party drifted up from below—laughter, music, the clink of champagne glasses toasting a future that was apparently built on lies.
What was I supposed to do now? March downstairs and confront them in front of two hundred guests? Pretend I hadn't heard anything and go through with the wedding? Cancel everything and deal with the scandal and humiliation?
I thought about Eleanor's words from last night: Don't let emotion cloud your judgment about what really matters.
What really mattered? The business merger between our families? My reputation in Manhattan society? The fact that I'd be publicly humiliated if I called off the engagement now?
Or the fact that the man I loved was in love with someone else?
As I sat there in the dim light of the third-floor landing, listening to the sounds of my own engagement party, I realized that Victoria had been right about one thing: I had spent my entire life trying to earn love from people who saw me as a means to an end.
Eleanor and Charles had adopted me, but I was never really their daughter—I was the grateful charity case who should be thankful for their generosity.
Blake had dated me for seven years, but apparently I was never really his choice—I was the suitable wife who would help secure business arrangements.
Even Victoria's sudden sisterly concern this afternoon had been calculated, designed to serve her own purposes.
The question was: what was I going to do about it?
I could hear footsteps on the staircase below—someone was coming up. Probably looking for me, since I'd been gone from my own party for far too long.
I stood up quickly, smoothing down my dress and trying to compose my face into something resembling normal. Whatever I decided to do about Blake and Victoria, I couldn't do it tonight. Not with two hundred witnesses and a merger contract that apparently depended on my cooperation.
But I also couldn't pretend that nothing had changed.
"Scarlett? Are you up there?"
Eleanor's voice, sharp with annoyance. Of course she'd noticed my absence.
"Coming, Mother," I called back, proud that my voice sounded steady.
I made my way downstairs, past Eleanor's disapproving gaze, past the family portraits that had watched over a lifetime of carefully orchestrated deceptions. As I re-entered the ballroom, I caught sight of Blake and Victoria standing on opposite sides of the room, both of them looking perfectly composed and appropriate.
Blake saw me and immediately started moving in my direction, his face lighting up with what looked like genuine relief.
"There you are," he said, reaching for my hands. "I was looking for you everywhere. Where did you disappear to?"
I stared up at him—this man who had just told another woman he loved her, this man who thought our seven-year relationship was a contract marriage—and felt something cold and hard crystallize in my chest.
"Just needed some air," I said calmly. "You know how overwhelming these events can be."
"Of course, baby. You've been perfect tonight. Absolutely perfect."
Perfect. The word tasted like poison in my mouth.
As Blake led me back into the crowd of well-wishers and business associates, as the evening continued with toasts and dancing and congratulations, I began to understand something fundamental about my life:
I had been playing a role in other people's stories for so long that I'd forgotten I was supposed to be the heroine of my own.
But heroines, I realized, didn't just accept betrayal and lies and loveless marriages because it was convenient for everyone else.
Heroines fought back.
The question was: how?