The Sterling drawing room gleamed like a stage set for deceit. Late afternoon light spilled across the marble floors, gilding the tension in gold.
David and Anna Vancourt had arrived — the former all handshakes and charm, the latter a quiet observer behind a smile that never reached her eyes. The visit was, officially, to "finalize engagement details." Unofficially, it was a performance.
I sat gracefully beside my father, a porcelain cup in hand, and let the tea's steam curl lazily upward like smoke from a slow-burning fuse.
Chloe was serving. Of course she was. That was the only way for her to be in the drawing room. Listening to the details, while stealing glances at Liam.
The silver tray trembled ever so slightly in her hands as she poured. She smiled prettily, the perfect younger sister, gracious and supportive. But her smile was too tight. Her fingers shook when she reached for the sugar tongs. And when Liam, sitting across from me, smiled that easy, golden-boy smile and spoke of our future, I saw it — a flicker in her eyes. Not sadness. Fury. Jealousy.
David was in his element, leaning forward with the warmth of a man closing a profitable deal. "This union, Charles, is a symbol of strength. Sterling stability, Vancourt innovation — a merger written in the stars."
My father chuckled, delighted. "And markets will respond well to that story. A perfect storm of confidence and legacy."
Anna Vancourt, elegant in pearl gray, merely smiled and stirred her tea. "Let's hope the young ones are as in sync as their fathers." Her tone was neutral, but her glance at Liam said otherwise.
"Oh, we are," I replied smoothly, letting my voice glide across the room. "Entirely."
I caught Chloe's reflection in the silver teapot — her jaw clenched, her eyes lowered. The more they spoke of the engagement, the more brittle her composure became. Every mention of my ring, my dress, our announcement — another fracture in her carefully constructed smile.
When my father said cheerfully, "We'll hold the ceremony at St. Albans Cathedral, nothing less for my daughter," and Liam mentioned the heirloom ring his grandmother had left "for his bride," Chloe's hand twitched. A few drops of tea splashed onto the saucer.
She froze. Just for a heartbeat. Then plastered on another smile, murmuring an apology as Miriam swooped in to replace the cup.
I hid my amusement behind a sip of tea. Every drop, every smile — a small, perfect punishment.
The men talked business. The women exchanged practiced pleasantries. And I catalogued every expression, every word, every tremor.
By the time the meeting ended, the Vancourts were satisfied, my father was radiant — and Chloe looked like she'd been flayed alive under her own skin.
The next day, the spectacle moved to the Sterling ballroom, temporarily transformed into a battlefield of taste and status.
Claude Antoine, the world-renowned event planner, had been summoned. The man himself arrived in a cloud of cologne and charisma, waving a tablet filled with mockups and floor plans.
"For the Sterling–Vancourt engagement, we must deliver something transcendent," he proclaimed.
"Then let's not be modest," I said, crossing one leg over the other. "We're celebrating legacy, not convenience."
Claude's eyes gleamed. "Naturally, Miss Sterling. What vision did you have in mind? I have a few ideas. Here, have a look."
I let the silence draw out as I swipe through the tablet, feeling Chloe's stare burning from across the room. Then, with the faintest smile:
"No, not those orchids. I want Vanda Miss Joaquim — flown in from Singapore. Set it against a backdrop of Verbena flowers. They were my mother's favorite."
A flicker of something crossed Chloe's face.
"The champagne," I continued. "Dom Pérignon, 1990 Oenothèque. Nothing else will do. And the string quartet will play Vivaldi's Four Seasons during cocktail hour — a testament to timeless elegance."
"Très magnifique," Monsieur Claude murmured, taking notes.
"For table settings, go with pastel colours, white, beige, peach... China plates with gold trim... I want fresh roses on the tables as well. Oh, and get me the menu to look through. Perhaps something along the lines of Scottish Langoustine Ceviche, Wild Morel Mushroom Consommé, Wagyu... You get my drift."
Claude nodded, taking more notes.
I turned, deliberately, to Chloe.
"What do you think, sister? Too much?"
She smiled, teeth flashing like knives. "It's perfect," she said softly. "Just like you."
Her voice trembled on the last word.
I tilted my head. "I do try. Well, this is just an engagement, so nothing too elaborate. I guess that would do."
Every demand, every flourish — a twist of the knife. The orchids, the champagne, the lace — each one another reminder that she could never touch the world I inhabited.
And she knew it.
By the time Claude left, drowning in inspiration and invoices, Chloe's smile had frozen into porcelain perfection. She excused herself under the pretense of a phone call, but I saw it — the tightness in her throat, the fury she could barely contain.
I almost pitied her. Almost.
Because envy, I'd learned, was a quiet poison.And Chloe was already drinking herself to death with it.
Days later, as a continuation of the preparations, at Madame Renée's Atelier de Haute Couture — the kind of place where every breath cost a small fortune. The air was laced with aged silk, powdered jasmine, and quiet ambition.
Bolts of fabric worth more than cars shimmered under the chandeliers — Chanel tweeds, Valenciennes lace, House of Lesage embroidery, each labeled with the reverence of relics. Mannequins draped in unfinished gowns stood like sentinels of beauty and excess.
Diana and Chloe were, of course, in attendance. A "family inclusion," my father had said. A humiliation, Chloe must have thought.
Madame Renée herself presided over the session — tall, severe, and legendary, her reputation stitched into the very bones of Parisian haute couture. "For the Sterling–Vancourt union," she announced crisply, "only perfection will suffice."
I smiled faintly. "Naturally."
I trailed a hand across the lace samples. "This one. Calais Caudencier — hand-stitched. The silk, I want a custom ivory. Subtle silver threads in the train to catch the light."
Madame Renée inclined her head. "An exquisite choice."
"The silk," I continued, my tone mild, almost thoughtful. "Duchesse satin from Maison Bucol, custom-dyed ivory. I want silver fil filé woven through the train — subtle, just enough to catch the light when I move."
Madame Renée made a pleased noise, gesturing for her assistants to take notes. "Très, très bon. We will line it with Sophie Hallette tulle. It will float like a dream."
I turned then, deliberately, to where Chloe sat — a spectator in her own tragedy, perched on a gilt Louis XVI fauteuil, clutching her Dior handbag like a lifeline.
Then I turned to Chloe, perched on her gilt chair like a guest at her own execution.
"What do you think, sister?" I asked, my voice honeyed. "Too understated?"
Her smile was exquisite — brittle, perfect, razor-thin. "It sounds… perfect for you."
I gave a soft laugh. "It should be. I can't afford imperfection."
Her jaw tightened. A muscle flickered at her temple.
I was half-laced into the toile of duchesse satin when my phone buzzed on the vanity. Kaelen.
I answered without thinking. "I'm a little busy Mr Kaelen," I murmured.
"Where are you?" His voice was low, rough — edged with something dangerously close to anger.
"Madame Renée's. Fitting for my shackles," I said lightly.
Silence. Then — a click. The line went dead.
Moments later, I stood on the central dais, curtains drawn, Madame Renée circling me like a sculptor judging her creation.
"Magnifique," she breathed. "Now, this is only to show you how the dress will look and feel. The actual dress will look even better when it's done."
The curtains swept open with a soft hiss.
The room went still. Light spilled across the satin, turning the fabric into liquid moonlight. The gown was everything I'd demanded — architectural perfection. A neckline that whispered restraint, a silhouette that commanded awe. Not flamboyant as a wedding dress should be, but has all the elegance, purity and class suited for the engagement of a heiress.
And in that still, breathless moment, my gaze found him.
Kaelen stood at the entrance. Silent. Motionless. But his presence hit like a thunderclap.
Why is he here?
The mask of cool detachment he always wore was gone. His face was pale, his jaw locked, and his eyes — gods, those eyes — burned with something far more dangerous than anger.
The room faded away. Diana's too-sweet compliments. My father's proud tears. Chloe's envy, sharp enough to draw blood. None of it mattered. There was only Kaelen — and the storm gathering behind his gaze.
He said nothing. He didn't need to.
That silence was a verdict.
Then he turned, without a word, and walked out.
I stood frozen on that dais — the silk heavy on my shoulders, the diamonds cold against my skin — not understanding what he meant. I took a deep breath and smiled at my father. "What do you think, daddy?"