Chapter 2
NO OFFENSE BEFORE CHRISTMAS (JOY)
“Engaged by New Year’s,” my mother says, as casually as ordering another mimosa. “Or you lose the trust.”
I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth, the roasted beet suddenly a tiny murder victim on my plate. The words hang in the air, a grenade with the pin pulled.
Two weeks. Fiancé. Twelve million dollars.
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“I’m sorry—what?”
“Your grandmother’s trust, dear.” She delivers the news with her trademark frost, crucial for survival on the Upper East Side.
“It vests the year you turn twenty-five, contingent on a formal engagement announcement. You turned twenty-five in October. Which means you have until December thirty-first to produce a fiancé and make it public.”
Across the table, my sister Lila chokes on her coffee.
My pulse flickers. The trust: circled in red since childhood. My birthday came and went. No call. I didn’t ask. In this house, curiosity invoices as greed.
I set my fork down with the careful precision of someone defusing a bomb. “And you’re telling me this now? Two weeks before the deadline?”
“We didn’t want to distract you during your… sports media project.” She smooths a napkin corner that was already straight. “Kinder to let you enjoy life before the adult choices.”
Uncle Julian’s jaw tightens. “It’s a league job, Serena, not a lemonade stand. Joy’s exceptional. Our numbers say so.” His tone stays sunny, which is, if you know him, when he’s most lethal. “The franchise clears more in a weekend than most galas raise in a season.”
“I merely suggested she could be doing more with her Harvard degree than working for the Defenders,” Mother says tightly. “No offense.”
“Some taken.” I meet her gaze. “I happen to love my job. And I’m not signing up for this nonsense.”
Mother continues, honey over steel. “Your grandmother was a practical woman. She believed in partnership and stability—” Mother’s smile could frost glass “—and she didn’t trust you’d make the right choices without incentive.”
The words are a cold slap. My grandmother loved me, but only if I performed the right version of femininity. Only if I proved I was worthy of the Preston name by securing the right husband.
Twelve million dollars. That’s the price tag on my grandmother’s approval. And the difference between keeping my apartment, funding the Harlem dance program, and having to crawl back to Mother with my hat in my hand.
“The trust document is specific,” Mother continues, undeterred.
“A good-faith engagement, publicly announced, on or before December thirty-first of the year you turn twenty-five. If not—” she dusts her hands, a magician finishing a trick “—the principal transfers to the Preston Family Foundation, irrevocably.”
Heat climbs my throat, my pulse hammering. “You’re telling me I have to stand up in public with a ring on my finger in two weeks or lose my inheritance?”
“Don’t be dramatic, darling,” she says, fluting the word. “It’s just an engagement.”
“Which famously requires another person,” I snap. “And I don’t understand why we are still peddling this institution to women like it’s a designer handbag. Half of your friends have signed divorce papers between yoga and Botox.”
Mother gasps, her hand flying up to her throat. Father clears his throat, uncomfortable but not unsympathetic. Uncle Julian’s mouth twitches, fighting a smile.
Lila leans in, eyes bright. “She’s not wrong. Women don’t need marriage to get what they need from men anymore.”
Mother’s brows jump. “Good God. That sounds straight out of—”
“Relax, Mother,” Lila says, polished and deadly. “That’s what Venmo is for.”
“Lydia Beatrix.”
“It’s Lila.”
My father shifts in his seat. “I’ll have our counsel review the language.”
“Please,” I say. “And forgive me if I’m not racing to shackle myself to a guy so you can call me stable. From where I’m sitting, stability looks a lot like a leash.”
The silence that follows could butter toast.
Mother inhales, about to implode, when Gideon, the estate manager, glides into the doorway and announces, smooth as glass:
“Mr. Bennett Vance the Fourth.”
Oh. My. Actual. God.
I exchange exasperated looks with Lila, because we both know where this is going.
Bennett Vance the fucking Fourth enters, already owning the oxygen in the room. Tall, handsome, jawline carved from marble. The kind of man who’s never heard “no” without a price tag attached.
My stomach drops. This is Mother’s solution.
“Mrs. Preston.” He kisses the air near Mother’s cheek. “Mr. Preston.” Handshake, firm. “Mr. Rothschild.” A nod to my uncle. “A pleasure.”
“Bennett.” Mother glows. “Thank you for making time.”
“Always, for family friends.” He turns to me with calculated warmth. “Good to see you.”
I bare my teeth in something resembling politeness. “Mr. Vance.”
“Bennett,” he corrects, stare assessing me like a scanner measuring ROI.
We sit. Brunch stitches itself around the bomb my mother dropped: silver domes lifted, steam rising, a perfectly balanced spinach omelet.
Bennett wedges in beside me, way too close.
The fucker breaches my personal space, and my spine goes rigid.
Lila slides me a look over her napkin that says: do I fake a medical emergency or will you?
“I’ve spoken with my father,” Bennett says, topping off his water. “We agreed that aligning our families makes sense. Shared interests—real estate, energy, media. Strategically, it’s elegant.”
“Strategically,” I echo, tasting copper.
His mouth curves with self-satisfaction. “And personally?” He tilts his head, as if he’s thought about this carefully. “We’d complement each other. You’re charming, you understand this world. We’d make sense together.”
“Be still my heart,” Lila deadpans.
Bennett ignores her. “I’m hosting a party on the thirtieth. Fireworks, charity tie-in, excellent press access. We can announce our engagement then. I’ve already spoken to my publicist about the rollout.”
“The rollout,” I say faintly. “How romantic.”
“We’ll position it as tradition meets modernity. Your work in the sports space lends a grounded note. My board appointments provide stability. Optics are everything.”
Uncle Julian’s tone frosts. “Her job isn’t a note. It’s a career.”
“Of course,” Bennett agrees lightly, the tone of someone saying of course she has a hobby. “Naturally, you can continue to curate content. We’ll have to tighten your brand guidelines, but nothing drastic.”
“My brand guidelines,” I repeat, dumbstruck.
Dad sets down his coffee. “Bennett, my daughter’s life is not a quarterly report.”
Bennett’s expression doesn’t shift. “With respect, Mr. Preston, this is about securing her future. The clause is inflexible. It’s mutually beneficial.”
Mother beams. Lila kicks me gently under the table: your move.
I turn to Bennett and smile the way one smiles at a shark. “Why are you agreeing to this?”
His brows knit. “Pardon?”
“What’s in it for you?”
He blinks, recovers. “Our families have interests to align. And—” he inclines his head “—you are lovely.”
“You don’t know me.”
“Not yet,” he says. I think he’s trying to flirt.
“Your father wants the Preston name connected to his business,” Lila murmurs.
Bennett laughs, swatting it away. “We all win.”
Uncle Julian’s tone could cut glass. “We’ll see.”
Mother sets down her napkin. “This is not a firing squad. It’s brunch. No one is forcing you into marriage. We’re simply presenting a possibility. You have two weeks. Why not choose sensibly?”
“Because I’m not a merger.” Anger burns off the shock. “I have a career I love. I’m not signing up for this nonsense.”
Mother’s smile thins. “A life that is precarious. Your salary will not support the standard you’re accustomed to. And without the trust—”
“Market rate is exactly on par for her role and experience as social media manager,” Uncle Julian cuts in, silk over steel. “More than, in fact.”
“Market isn’t our standard,” Mother dismisses haughtily.
“The world doesn’t bill by your standard, Serena.”
The reality stings. A rent-hike notice slid under my door a few weeks ago.
With so many new players moving into the building, they can jack it up as high as they want, and on my salary, I can’t keep up.
When the lease renews, I’m out. And it isn’t just rent.
It’s the Harlem studio—the scholarship program I’ve been sketching in my planner’s margins.
Classes for girls who’d never touch a barre otherwise.
No trust, no free dance classes for underprivileged kids.
Yeah, technically, I’ll never starve—Mother would rather die than let a Preston work retail—but that’s not freedom, that’s golden handcuffs.
The trust was supposed to be mine. Mine-mine.
My terms. A clean exit ramp from this table.
And they’re telling me that exit disappears in fourteen days unless I let them announce my engagement.
I glance at Lila, who’s smirking into her water glass. At Uncle Julian’s clenched jaw. My father’s regret. Mother’s smugness. Bennett’s smile—all of them waiting.
I lift my chin, even as my hands shake in my lap. “Mother, I’ll read the clause. I’ll review it with counsel. But let’s be clear—if a fiancé is indeed required on a deadline, I’ll choose him myself.” I glance at Bennett. “No offense.”
Silence settles, heavy as snowfall.
Uncle Julian leans back, the edge of a grin tugging. “Now that’s a Preston spine if I’ve ever seen one.”
“Don’t be rash, dear,” Mother says softly, which is rich.
When I meet Dad’s gaze, he nods once: I’ll back you. Uncle Julian rises. “We can loop in my counsel too. I’d like to understand enforcement language.”
Mother’s composure cracks, then smooths. “Of course. Whatever makes everyone comfortable.” For a second, there’s a flicker behind her eyes—disappointment, maybe, or worry I can’t quite name. Then it’s gone, locked behind the same smile that’s ruled every family photo since I was born.
Bennett stands, pivot already loaded. “Very well. My assistant will reach out. Perhaps a simple dinner to start?”
“No.” I smile, sharp enough to cut. “We’ll start with nothing. No offense, Bennett, you’re not my type.”
His jaw ticks. Mother doesn’t move. “Two weeks to get engaged. Any better ideas?”
I meet her stare and tip my chin. “We’ll see.”