My Billionaire Husband Got My Sister Pregnant (Her Marriage in Crisis #63)

1. Caroline

— ? —

Caroline

The Hawke Foundation gala is a spectacle of crystal chandeliers, designer gowns, and conversations so polished they could cut glass.

I’ve been to a dozen of these events since Graham put his grandmother’s ring on my finger, and every single one has felt like drowning in slow motion while smiling for the cameras.

Tonight is no different.

The ballroom of the Astoria Grand is draped in enough white silk to clothe a small nation, and the chandeliers cast everything in a golden glow that makes even the most ordinary faces look distinguished.

Waiters glide through the crowd with trays of champagne, their movements choreographed to perfection.

A string quartet plays something classical and inoffensive in the corner - the kind of music designed to be heard but not listened to.

I’m standing near the silent auction tables, trying to look interested in a weekend getaway to Aspen that I’ll never bid on, when Kristi materializes at my elbow like she’s been summoned by my discomfort.

My mother-in-law-to-be has a sixth sense for finding me at my most vulnerable, swooping in with her perfectly coiffed silver hair and her judgment wrapped in silk.

“Caroline, darling.” Her voice carries just enough to draw the attention of the half-circle of society women pretending to examine the auction items. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the seating chart.”

Here we go.

“The seating chart is finalized, Kristi. We went over it last week.”

“Yes, well.” She adjusts the diamond bracelet on her wrist, a casual gesture that somehow manages to be aggressive.

The bracelet probably costs more than my parents’ house - a fact she’s reminded me of, in subtle ways, at least a dozen times since Graham and I got engaged.

“I’ve been thinking. The Whitfords really should be at table three, not table seven.

Patricia Whitford sits on three charity boards with me, and having her that far from the main table sends a message. ”

“The message being?”

“That you don’t understand how these things work.” She says it sweetly, like she’s doing me a favor by pointing out my inadequacy. “Which isn’t your fault, of course. You weren’t raised in this world.”

A woman in emerald silk murmurs something to her companion. I catch the words poor thing and feel my smile calcify. The words burrow under my skin like splinters, finding the places where I’m already raw from five years of never quite belonging.

Five years. That’s how long I’ve been with Graham - since he walked into the diner where I was waitressing my way through journalism school, all charm and confidence and a smile that made me forget I was holding a pot of stale coffee.

He’d been wearing a cashmere sweater that cost more than my monthly rent, slumming it in a neighborhood his family probably didn’t know existed.

He pursued me relentlessly after that first meeting, showing up night after night, ordering pie he never ate just to talk to me.

I thought it was romantic. I thought he saw something special in me - not my background or my bank account, but me.

The real me, the one who dreamed of writing investigative pieces that actually mattered, who stayed up late reading and woke up early to study, who was determined to build a life that meant something.

Now I wonder if I was just a project. The girl from nowhere, polished up and presented to society like a reclamation effort. Look what we did with this one - isn’t she almost passable?

“I’ll look into it,” I say, because that’s what I always say. That’s what keeps the peace.

“And the flowers.” Kristi isn’t finished. She’s never finished. “Peonies are lovely, but they’re very last season. Everyone’s doing ranunculus now. I hope it’s not too late to make changes.”

“The flowers have been ordered for three months, Kristi. The deposit is non-refundable.”

“Well, perhaps next time you’ll consult me earlier in the process.

” She pats my arm like I’m a wayward child who needs correction, her diamond rings cold against my skin.

“And the dress - I saw the photos from your final fitting. It’s beautiful, truly, but I wonder if something with more structure might have been a better choice.

You have such a lovely figure, but you do tend to disappear in flowing fabrics. ”

The dress is my mother’s. The only thing about this wedding that actually belongs to me.

But I don’t say that, because Kristi would find a way to criticize that too - the vintage lace, the outdated silhouette, the sentiment of wearing something borrowed instead of buying something new and appropriately expensive.

The woman in emerald silk has given up all pretense of not listening.

She’s watching us with the rapt attention of someone enjoying a tennis match, her champagne glass frozen halfway to her lips.

Two more women have drifted closer, drawn by the scent of social blood in the water.

I recognize the type - the kind who smile at you while cataloging your weaknesses, who offer compliments that are actually criticisms, who will repeat this conversation at their next luncheon with embellishments designed to make me look even worse.

I wanted a small wedding. Thirty people in a garden, strings of lights in the trees, my college friends and the few family members who actually know me.

Graham said it sounded lovely. He’d held my hand and told me we could do whatever I wanted, that this was our day, that nothing mattered except our love.

Then Kristi got involved.

Suddenly we were booking a cathedral that seats hundreds, and the guest list was filled with business associates and society connections, and my vision of an intimate celebration became a Hawke family production.

When I tried to push back, Graham had looked at me with that patient, slightly disappointed expression he’s perfected over the years.

“It’s just a wedding, Caroline. It’s one day. Can’t you just let my mother have this?”

Just a wedding. Just one day. Just give in, like always.

“Thank you for the feedback,” I manage through teeth that want to clench. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“That’s all I ask.” Kristi’s smile sharpens, revealing the steel beneath the polish. “We just want this wedding to be perfect. For Graham’s sake.”

She drifts away toward the Whitfords, probably to apologize for the seating chart I haven’t actually agreed to change, and I’m left standing among the auction items with my champagne going flat in my hand and my face aching from the effort of keeping it neutral.

For Graham’s sake.

Everything is for Graham’s sake. The venue he wanted.

The guest list his mother curated. The honeymoon destination his father suggested because the Hawkes have been going to that resort for generations.

The engagement ring that belonged to his grandmother, chosen without my input because “it’s tradition.

” The apartment we live in, decorated by Kristi’s interior designer because I “wouldn’t know where to start with a space this size. ”

Somewhere along the way, this stopped being my life and became a role I’m playing in someone else’s story.

The woman in emerald silk catches my eye and offers a sympathetic smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

I recognize her now - Patricia Whitford herself, the one whose seating assignment has apparently caused a diplomatic incident.

She’s enjoying this. They all are. The outsider who dared to marry above her station, being put in her place by the family matriarch.

It’s probably the most entertaining thing that’s happened at one of these galas in years.

I need a drink. A real one.

The bar is tucked into an alcove near the back of the ballroom, far enough from the crowd that I can breathe without performing. I order a vodka soda and let the bartender’s efficient silence wash over me like a blessing.

“You don’t look like a happy bride.”

The voice comes from my left, low and dry, and I turn to find Sean Donnelly leaning against the bar with a whiskey in hand and absolutely no pretense of enjoying himself.

Graham’s business partner. His best friend since college, though I’ve always suspected the friendship is more one-sided than either of them admits. The best man who agreed to the role with all the enthusiasm of someone accepting a prison sentence.

He’s tall - taller than Graham, broader in the shoulders - and he moves like someone who’s used to taking up space without apologizing for it.

Dark hair that’s slightly too long, like he can’t be bothered to care what anyone thinks.

Sharp jaw shadowed with stubble that looks like two days of not giving a damn.

And eyes so dark they’re almost black, currently fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

I’ve always found Sean... unsettling. Not in a bad way. In the way that a storm on the horizon is unsettling - beautiful and dangerous and impossible to ignore. He’s the one person at these events who doesn’t seem to be performing, and that authenticity is both refreshing and terrifying.

He’s also, objectively, the most attractive man I’ve ever seen in person.

Not that I let myself think about that. Not that I let myself notice the way his forearms look when he rolls up his sleeves, or the way his voice drops half an octave when he’s being serious, or the way he looks at me sometimes like he’s seeing something no one else bothers to look for.

I definitely don’t notice any of that. I’m an engaged woman.

“And you don’t look like a happy best man,” I counter, forcing my attention to his face instead of cataloging the way his suit jacket stretches across his shoulders.