Chapter 3
WILLOW
To think I never set foot in the Morgans’ Hamptons estate, even though I was engaged to Terrence, should have been yet another red flag in our relationship.
“It’s humongous,” Jamie says as we get out of my car.
We park next to a string of silver and sleek black Lexus sedans.
At the base of the palatial mansion’s front steps, an artesian fountain displays its marble angels that pour water into a small pond surrounded by a cobblestone pathway.
At the top of the stairs, a man in a dark grey butler’s uniform awaits.
“They’ve had this place for generations,” I tell Jamie. “I’m pretty sure they built it from the ground up, somewhere around the turn of the twentieth century.”
“Well, the Morgans have been rich and around since long before that,” he says. “They probably wanted a summer palace, like the European royals or something.”
“It does make you wonder.”
“Wonder what?” Jamie asks.
“What they’re like. I mean, the brothers are dashing, charming, and handsome, but what are they really like?” I wonder aloud. “Are they as entitled as Terrence, just better at smooth talking?”
Jamie leans in. “I don’t think you should use a loser like Terrence as a blueprint for the Morgan brothers. Just remember that he’s not really—”
“A Morgan,” I say, finishing his sentence for him. “You’re right.”
Some skepticism is healthy, but I’m probably delving into overly cautious territory, and the chemistry I felt with Cole, Asher, and Toby hit differently. It was deeper, more intense, and more intentional than anything else.
“Good morning and welcome,” the butler says, greeting us as we reach the top of the stairs. “My name is Ian. I hope you had a nice ride out.”
“There was not as much traffic as we expected,” I reply with a smile. “Then again, the cold weather is upon us. I assume most of the Hamptonites have already gone back to the city to prepare for the holidays.”
“They have. The Morgan family will be moving their operations to the upstate winter estate, as well, by the end of next week,” he says. “Now, if you would both follow me inside.”
We do, quiet and observant as we walk through the massive double doors.
The mansion’s exterior is painted white with dark blue window frames, and the wood bears a dark, almost chocolatey grain.
It’s a dramatic and imposing contrast, reminiscent of the nineteenth-century nautical theme so many of America’s bourgeoisie chose for their summer homes.
The interior is exquisite and enormous, with tall ceilings and lacquered parquet floors.
The windows are equally tall, providing a constant source of abundant light, while the textiles are light in color.
Paintings of nautical scenes and family portraits adorn the walls, along with vintage photographs of some of the Morgan men’s most treasured yachts.
We’re taken to the tearoom, and as soon as we walk through the French doors, my stomach begins to violently churn.
Sheila stands up from one of the embroidered chairs while steam rises from a porcelain pot on the table next to her. “Glad to see you both made it,” she says, looking elegant and composed in her white silk shirt and black pencil skirt, heels clicking on the marble floor. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“Yet here we are,” I reply, my tone clipped and my blood close to a boiling point, but Jamie takes the lead, like we agreed.
“Thank you for the invitation,” he says.
We cautiously approach as the butler steps back. I steal a glance at the man in his late fifties and notice the discomfort deeply etched into his face. He doesn’t like Sheila that much either. At least I’m not alone in this sentiment.
“I had tea prepared. Have a seat and make yourselves comfortable,” Sheila replies, motioning toward the other seats around the table.
I sink into one, while Jamie takes the other next to mine, and Sheila returns to hers, proceeding to pour some freshly brewed, rose-colored tea into one of the dainty cups—part of an elegant set prepared for this occasion.
It smells nice, but her perfume is so intense and far too sweet, quickly overpowering my senses.
“I had Ian supply us with an artificial sweetener,” she says, looking at me with a flat smile. “Assuming you’re watching your calories.”
And there it is. Another jab. But I need the money, and I need this project, so I clamp down on my pride and flash a cool grin. “No, I’m good with regular sugar, thank you,” I reply and pour a cup of my own, adding two teaspoons of brown sugar for good measure.
The muted horror in her eyes gives me tremendous satisfaction.
“Now I understand you’re organizing a wedding,” Jamie says with a polite nod, as he takes out his iPad for meeting notes. “Who’s the happy couple?”
“As if you didn’t know,” Sheila shoots back, smiling from ear to ear. “Terrence and Katrina are eager to tie the knot just before Christmas, so—”
“Just before Christmas?” I blurt out, almost choking on my tea. “That’s less than four weeks away. I assume you want a big, lavish wedding.”
“Exactly,” she says, as if her request is completely reasonable. “Are you not up to the task?”
“Sheila, you know we’re up to the task. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have had your people reach out to us. But I want to know… why us?”
I give Jamie an apologetic nod. He was supposed to handle the discussion, but she’s just too much for my tired nerves.
“Because while I may dislike you as a person, I do appreciate the skill with which you deliver your services,” Sheila says. “I’ve only heard good things from your previous clients.”
“Is that why you poached four of our existing clients and sent them off to your friend’s agency?” I ask sharply.
She looks surprised, but I’m not buying it. “I don’t take kindly to unfounded accusations.”
“Then you should enlist your friend’s agency to handle this event,” I reply.
It’s a gamble, I know. And judging by the not-so-subtle ankle kick Jamie just gave me as his eyes throw daggers at my face, he knows it too.
Yet I find comfort and certainty in the fact that Sheila asked us to come over—fully aware that I’m not the type to bend over so easily. She must’ve seen this coming.
“They’re too busy with their new clients to give us the attention and the dedication we require,” she states, sounding way too satisfied for my own ego. I walked right into this one, didn’t I? “So, are you capable of handling this?”
“You want a wedding before Christmas,” Jamie says. “Four weeks. It means we’ll need to mail the invitations out before the end of next week. It’s a stretch, but doable.”
“Good. Glad to hear that.”
“Do you have a location in mind?” he asks.
“Our winter estate in Thornwood,” Sheila says. “The ballroom holds up to a thousand guests.”
A troubled look passes between Jamie and me. “How many guests will you expect?”
“About a thousand.”
My stomach drops. That’s a large number for a short window of time. “It’ll be close to Christmas, and there’s bound to be heavy snowfall by the second week of December, which might make the Thornwood inaccessible.”
“Oh, they’ll come,” she replies with another confident grin. “It will be the event of the year, and we insist on a luxurious winter theme.”
“Design and visual-wise, what color scheme are you considering?” Jamie tries so hard to be professional while all I want to do is throw this cup filled with hot tea at the woman’s face. “Perhaps white and silver?”
“Precisely,” she says. “With some pale blue or a metallic, deeper blue for accents. Or white and a smidge of gold? Some cream on the side? What would you suggest?”
Jamie thinks about it for a moment. “White, silver, and blue is as distinguished as they come. The Romanoff family’s winter balls had that color scheme, and they smashed it every time.”
“Oh, yes, I remember seeing photos. So bejeweled.” Sheila laughs lightly.
The tearoom door opens. Terrence and Katrina walk in—hand in hand and dressed like an uppity J Crew catalogue couple that’s about to go sailing together.
“Hope we’re not late,” Terrence says as the two of them join us. “We’re just popping by to say hello. Mom will handle all the wedding details.”
“Without any input from the bride?” I quickly pick up on the unspoken tension as I give Katrina a wry smile.
“Sheila says I only have to worry about my dress and makeup. She’s got everything else covered,” Katrina replies, trying to sound cool with this arrangement. “It saves me a lot of stress and effort. I couldn’t be more thankful.”
“I’m sure you couldn’t,” I mutter.
“Well, I’m glad we were able to get some cash flowing your way,” Terrence cuts in, looking at me. “I heard you weren’t doing so well, so Kat and I decided to work with you, despite our history.”
Our history.
Oh, now he’s just begging for a kick in the nuts. Was I so blind to this man’s charm that I really didn’t see who he truly was? Or was the fear of never being chosen simply powerful enough to blind me? Either way, it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s a lesson learned, not a mistake meant to define me.
“It’s greatly appreciated,” I reply, but the strain in my voice is impossible to hide, and it draws a dark glare from Sheila.
“I can’t wait for you to see Katrina in her bridal gown. I saw the preliminary design earlier this morning. It’ll be downright stunning,” she says. “Perfect for her slim, delicate figure.”
“I’ll need to focus on the last-minute request of the event itself,” I reply.
“I hope you understand that there will be additional fees attached to the final bill, and we will need timely responses on every selection, from fabrics and theme colors to decorations and the catering menu. Not to mention the drinks, the cake… everything. It will cost you a fortune.”
“We have a fortune,” Sheila laughs. “I will spare no expense for my son’s happiness, Willow.”