Friday morning, my mother appeared at the estate with her stylist, three assistants, and what looked like half of Fifth Avenue's haute couture
"Absolutely not," she said, dismissing the first five dresses I tried on. "You're not attending a funeral, Livvy. You're making a statement."
"What statement exactly?" I emerged from the dressing room in a stunning emerald gown that cost more than a small car.
"Better. The color brings out your eyes." She circled me critically. "The statement is: I am Olivia Sinclair, I was temporarily insane, and now I've remembered who I am. Also, that man was the biggest mistake of my life, and I've moved on to bigger and better things."
"That's a very specific statement."
"Fashion is a language, darling. Learn to speak it fluently." She nodded to her stylist. "We'll take this one. Now, jewelry."
By noon, I was standing in front of my mirror in the emerald gown, wearing my grandmother's vintage Cartier diamonds, my hair swept into an elegant updo, and makeup that made me look sophisticated and completely untouchable.
I looked like money. Old money. The kind of wealth Marcus Chen could never have afforded, let alone understood.
"Perfect," my mother declared. "He's going to choke on his champagne when he sees you."
"That's not the goal, Mom."
"Isn't it?" She met my eyes in the mirror. "Darling, I know you. You. don't want him back—thank God—but you do want him to realize what he gave up. There's nothing wrong with that."
She wasn't wrong.
At exactly seven o'clock, our gate intercom buzzed. I answered it myself, despite Mrs. Chen hovering nearby.
"Miss Sinclair," Damien's voice came through. "Your chariot awaits."
I smiled despite myself. "I'll be right down."My father met me at the base of the stairs, elegant in his tuxedo. "You look beautiful, sweetheart."
"Thanks, Dad."
"And this Cross fellow—"
"Is a business arrangement. That's all."
"Uh-huh." He looked thoroughly unconvinced. "Just remember, you don't owe Marcus Chen anything. Not explanations, not justifications, nothing. You live your life for yourself now."
"I will." He kissed my forehead. "Go have fun. Or at least make him regret his entire existence."
"Dad!"
"What? I'm allowed to be petty on your behalf."
Damien was waiting by a midnight blue Aston Martin, looking devastatingly handsome in a perfectly cut tuxedo. His eyes widened slightly when he saw me.
"Olivia." He opened the car door. "You look..."
"Memorable?" I supplied, using his own word.
"That's one word for it." His smile was appreciative but not leering. "Shall we?"
The drive into Manhattan was surprisingly comfortable. Damien proved to be an engaging conversationalist, discussing everything from modern art to economic policy. He didn't bring up the Pembertons or our arrangement, treating this like an actual date.
"Nervous?" he asked as we pulled up to the Metropolitan Museum. "About Marcus? No." I checked my lipstick in the visor mirror. "About Eleanor Pemberton? A little. She's intimidating even on a good day."
"Then it's lucky I'm intimidating too."
"Is that what you call it?"
"I prefer 'commanding presence.'" He came around to open my door, offering his hand. "Ready to make an entrance?"
The red carpet stretched up the museum steps, lined with photographers and society reporters. I'd walked this carpet dozens of times before, but never
after disappearing for three years, and never with someone like Damien Cross.
"Olivia Sinclair?" a reporter called out. "Is it true you've returned to Sinclair Global?"
"And who's your date?" another shouted.
Damien's hand settled at the small of my back, possessive and grounding. "Let them wonder," he murmured in my ear. "Mystery is more interesting than answers."
We climbed the steps together, and I could feel every eye on us. The whispers started immediately.
"Is that Olivia Sinclair?"
"I thought she got married?"
"Divorced, apparently. And isn't that Damien Cross?"
"What's he doing here?"
At the entrance, we were greeted by the gala coordinator with a champagne flute each. The Great Hall had been transformed into an elegant wonderland, crystal chandeliers glittering above, ice sculptures at every corner, and Manhattan's elite circulating in their designer best.
And there, by the Egyptian wing entrance, stood Marcus Chen and Vanessa Hartley.
He looked the same—handsome in a conventional way, his tuxedo perfectly pressed, his hair styled just so. Vanessa was beautiful, delicate and blonde, wearing a pink gown that probably cost a fortune but somehow still looked juvenile next to the sophisticated fashion around us.
Marcus's eyes found mine across the room, and I watched his. champagne glass stop halfway to his lips.
He stared.
Vanessa said something to him, but he didn't respond, his eyes locked on me.
"Is that him?" Damien asked quietly.
"That's him."
"Huh." Damien studied Marcus with the analytical gaze of a predator assessing prey. "I expected more."
Despite everything, I laughed. "So did I. For three years, I expected more."
"His loss." Damien turned his attention back to me, his smile warm. "Now, where's Eleanor Pemberton?"
"Near the Egyptian sarcophagus. She always positions herself by the most expensive artifact in the room."
"Naturally. Shall we?"
As we crossed the floor, I felt Marcus's eyes following us. But I kept my gaze forward, my hand light on Damien's arm, my smile confident.
The old Olivia would have looked back.
The new Olivia didn't need to.