Chapter 2
Olivia
I hate sweet drinks. Always have. But I sip the syrupy latte anyway, watching Theodore Ashworth III over the rim of my cup.
The morning sunlight pours through the large windows of Le Ciel, the new French bistro in the city’s arts district, casting a golden glow across his perfectly styled brown hair.
Theo is handsome in that understated, intellectual way—wire-rimmed glasses, cashmere sweater, every inch the Ivy League poster boy.
Polished. Unruffled. Like he’s never had to fight for a damn thing in his life.
It’s Friday, and this is my fifth date this week.
My eyes feel gritty, the heavy layer of concealer doing little to hide the dark circles. My feet hate me, and I’ve sat through enough Bitcoin monologues to make me want to claw my own ears off.
But desperate times call for desperate measures.
The clock’s ticking down on Tiffany’s freedom while I’m speed-dating my way through Empire Heights’ most eligible trust fund heirs. The plan that took shape after I left Carter Manor is reckless, maybe even foolish, but it’s the only one I’ve got.
If I can convince one of these men to propose—a marriage of convenience, a scandal, anything to throw off Dean’s plans—I’ll buy Tiffany time. If not, I must find another way to stop Dean from forcing her into a life she doesn’t want.
“I must say, Olivia, you have impeccable taste in restaurants.” Theodore’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “The eggs Benedict here are divine.”
I smile and nod, pushing my barely touched croissant around my plate. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”
Theodore launches into a detailed analysis of the hollandaise sauce techniques, and I find myself mentally cataloging his potential usefulness. He’s wealthy and well-connected through his mother’s side. Respectable. Boring.
But would he risk a scandal for a woman he’s just met, just to spite the Carters? Doubtful.
“My ex-wife loves French cuisine as well. I must say, you remind me of her in some ways.”
I raise an eyebrow. A red flag if ever there was one. “Is that so?”
Theodore nods enthusiastically, oblivious to my tone. “Oh yes, Monica has the same refined palate, the same appreciation for the finer things. Of course, she lacks your entrepreneurial spirit.” He gestures vaguely in my direction. “Running an art gallery must be quite the adventure.”
The way he says ‘adventure’ makes it sound like a quaint hobby rather than the business I’ve poured my heart and soul into building.
I take another sip of my latte, buying myself time to formulate a response that won’t send him running for the hills before I can properly assess his marriage potential.
“Thank you.” I steer the conversation to more neutral ground. “I hear you own quite the art collection. Do you have any favorite periods or artists?”
Theodore’s eyes light up with the fervor of a man who’s finally found someone willing to listen to his favorite subject.
“Oh, absolutely. I’m particularly drawn to the Dutch Masters—Vermeer, Rembrandt, you know.
There’s something about the way they captured light that modern artists simply can’t replicate. ”
I nod politely. His taste runs toward the safe, the established, the utterly predictable. Not that there’s anything wrong with the Dutch Masters, but his dismissal of contemporary art tells me everything I need to know about his willingness to take risks.
“I actually have a small Monet sketch. Nothing major, just a study for one of his water lily series, but it’s been in my family for three generations.”
“How wonderful.”
As Theodore drones on about provenance and auction prices, my mind wanders.
I’ve been systematically working through every eligible bachelor in Empire Heights’s social circles, looking for someone who might be desperate, bold, or crazy enough to help me execute my plan.
So far, my search for a suitable husband has proven to be more difficult than I had anticipated, and my expectations were not high to begin with.
My best friend Cassandra and I spent the past week scouring social events, high-class parties where wealthy bachelors might gather like expensive peacocks. I’ve sat through charity galas, wine tastings, and museum openings, smiling until my cheeks ached.
The problem is that most of these men are either happily committed to their comfortable lives, too risk-averse to consider something as scandalous as marrying someone like me on such short notice, or, worse, too enamored with their own self-importance to see the value in aligning with someone outside their immediate social circle.
Theodore, for all his charm and wealth, falls squarely into the latter category.
He’s the kind of man who would balk at the idea of upsetting the status quo, let alone taking on a family as powerful as the Carters.
“Of course,” Theodore continues, “Monica always preferred the Impressionists. She had an exquisite eye for...”
I force my features into a mask of interest while thinking, not again . This date may be heading down an all-too-familiar path.
I clear my throat. “That’s fascinating. Speaking of art, have you ever visited my art gallery?”
Theodore pauses mid-sentence, blinking as if he’d forgotten I was more than just a polite audience for his reminiscences about his ex-wife. “Your gallery? Oh, yes, of course. The... what was it called again?”
“Millhouse Gallery,” I supply, trying not to let my irritation show. We’d discussed this five minutes ago.
“Right, yes. I’ve been meaning to stop by. Contemporary art, isn’t it? Monica and I used to debate the merits of modern versus classical. She was quite passionate about abstract expressionism, though I never quite understood the appeal myself.”
I sink back into my chair, feeling more like an audience member than a participant on this date. When the waiter approaches our table, I take advantage of the opportunity and subtly signal for the check. Theodore continues to ramble on about his life with Monica, but I tune him out.
I need to cut this date short before he launches into another monologue.
I interject, “I’m so sorry to cut our time short, but I have an urgent meeting at the gallery this afternoon. Thank you for a lovely breakfast, Theodore.”
He blinks in surprise. “Oh, well, of course. It was a pleasure meeting you, Olivia.”
“You should stop by Millhouse Gallery sometime,” I suggest, standing up and adjusting the hem of my designer dress.
I leave a few notes of cash on the table to cover my portion of the bill.
“I’d be happy to give you a tour and introduce you to some of our contemporary artists.
You can also invite Monica to join us. Perhaps she could offer us a fresh perspective on our collection. ”
Theodore’s eyes widen at the suggestion, uncertainty flashing across his face. “I-I’m not sure if that would be appropriate. Monica and I haven’t been on good terms since our divorce.”
I give him a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry. But the invitation stands, should you change your mind. Until next time, Theodore.”
He watches me leave, a perplexed expression on his face as I make my way out of Le Ciel, the early autumn sunlight warming my face as I step onto the sidewalk. The light breeze carries the scent of changing leaves and freshly roasted coffee beans from nearby cafes.
I head towards Millhouse Gallery, the one place where I feel truly alive and in control.
The converted mill building rises before me like a beacon of hope in an otherwise bleak week. Its red brick facade and large industrial windows gleam in the afternoon sun, and I can already see potential visitors browsing the outdoor sculpture installation that Cassandra and I unveiled last month.
I push through the glass doors, and the familiar scent of fresh paint envelops me. This is my sanctuary, the one thing Dean can’t touch—at least not yet. However, his threat to destroy my business still echoes in my mind, making my stomach clench with anxiety.
A few people are milling about the gallery, admiring the latest exhibits. Anna, who helps at the gallery part-time, catches my eye and smiles at me from across the room as she talks to a potential buyer. I smile back before making my way to my office at the back of the gallery.
“Cassandra?” I call out. “Are you here?”
I hear the familiar sound of heels clicking against the hardwood floor before my business partner and best friend appears from the back room, her wild auburn curls barely contained by a paint-splattered headband.
Cassandra Moore is everything I’m not—impulsive, passionate, and unafraid to speak her mind.
She’s also the only person who knows about Dean’s ultimatum.
“Olivia! You’re back early. How was the date?”
Cassandra has been my closest friend ever since we met on our first day at an all-girls school after I moved into Carter Manor.
She’s always been the adventurous one, pushing me out of my comfort zone and into a world of excitement and risk.
She’s also the one who encouraged me to open up Millhouse Gallery, and she’s been by my side every step of the way.
It doesn’t hurt that she seems to know everyone in town; her connections were crucial in getting our first few clients when we were just starting out.
Without her, I doubt we would have gotten off the ground so quickly.
“Terrible,” I say, dropping into the leather chair behind my desk. “He spent the entire time talking about his ex-wife. Apparently, Monica has a ‘refined palate’ and an ‘exquisite eye for art.’”
Cassandra winces. “Yikes. That’s what, strike five this week?”
“Five disastrous dates. Five dead ends.” I rub my temples, feeling a headache building. “Time is running out, Cass. Dean gets back from his business trip in two weeks, and then he’s going to tell Tiffany about the arranged marriage. I’m starting to think that my idea was indeed crazy.”
On paper, the plan seems foolproof. Find a wealthy, influential husband who could divert attention from Tiffany’s arranged marriage and give Uncle Dean a reason to reconsider.
But in reality, finding a man willing to marry a woman he barely knows for the sake of disrupting a political alliance is proving to be nearly impossible.
“I warned you from the beginning that your plan was the most reckless and crazy thing I’ve ever heard of. Darling, what did you expect? To find a husband in a week? It’s...” She pauses, searching for the right word. “Well, it’s ambitious, to say the least.”
I sigh, slumping against the chair. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but—”
“But you would do anything for Tiffany,” Cassandra finishes.
“I understand. But if finding a rich man was as easy as picking up groceries, everyone would be married to a millionaire by now. And for what it’s worth, I’ve known Alexander Hawthorne since prep school.
He’s not the monster you’re imagining. Maybe marrying him wouldn’t be the worst thing for Tiffany. ”
“No,” I say sharply, sitting up straighter. “Tiffany is not a chess piece for Dean to shove around. She deserves the right to make her own choices—not just be handed off for convenience.”
She taps her manicured nails against her chin. “Then you need to step outside of your usual circles. Expand your search, meet new people, and broaden your horizons. You have to be in the right place at the right time.”
“I know you too well, Cass,” I say exasperatedly. “You have something in mind. Just tell me, no need to butter me up.”
She laughs. “I had an inspirational speech ready, you’re missing out. Anyway, I organized a thank-you dinner for all the top donors and sponsors of our local college tonight. It’s an exclusive event for the crème de la crème of society, if you will.”
I sit up straighter. “Go on.”
Cassandra’s grin widens. “This might be the perfect opportunity for you. These men aren’t just wealthy; they’re loaded with power, connections, and prestige—all things Uncle Dean can’t resist. If you can find one without a significant other,” she adds as an afterthought.
A glimmer of hope sparks in my chest. “You think I might meet someone suitable there?” I ask, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.
“It’s possible.” Cassandra shrugs. “At the very least, it’s a better hunting ground than any of those fancy parties or stuffy events we’ve been attending. And,” she adds with a wink, “the champagne will be flowing. That always helps.”
The idea of another evening filled with forced smiles and small talk is draining, but time is running out. For Tiffany’s sake, I can’t afford to be picky.
“Well, when you put it that way... I guess it couldn’t hurt to give it a shot.”
“Fabulous!” She claps her hands together. “I’ll send a car for you at half past eight. Wear that red Valentino dress—you look absolutely lethal in it.”
As Cassandra hurries off to make arrangements, I’m left alone in my office with my thoughts and a growing sense of dread.
My plan is bold and possibly reckless, but if there’s even a slim chance of finding someone who can play the role I so desperately need them to, then I must take it.
“This has to work,” I whisper to myself. “It just has to.”
For my little sister, I’ll charm every man in that room if I have to.