3 - The Galas Call
The sharp trill of Vivaldi's Spring sliced through Scarlett's concentration like a blade, the violins far too bright for the suffocating weight of her thoughts. Jessica. That problem still tangled itself across her mind like a knot she couldn't undo.
She didn't even glance at the caller ID—her fingers reached blindly, snatching the phone as her eyes stayed glued to the glowing screen.
"Hello?" Her voice was rough, a rasp from hours of silence. When had she last spoken to anyone?
"Scarlett." No greeting, no warmth. Just her mother's voice, clipped and commanding. "You need to be at the charity gala tonight."
The words landed with the precision of gunfire.
Scarlett's hands froze over her keyboard. Through the phone she could hear champagne glasses chiming, the low thrum of conversation, a woman's laugh too sharp to be sincere. Emma Landon was already at some pre-gala cocktail hour, conveniently neglecting to inform her daughter beforehand.
"Mom, I can't. I'm drowning in work—"
"Scarlett Landon." Her mother's full-voiced emphasis cracked like a whip. "The Crawfords will be there. The Merricks, with their son Thomas freshly returned from London. You will attend. Or tomorrow..." A deliberate pause. "You'll be looking for a new job."
The threat slid down Scarlett's spine like ice water.
She pressed her palm to her temple, where a headache was beginning to bloom. "You can't be serious."
"Do I sound like I'm joking?" Emma's voice didn't rise—it never needed to.
Scarlett's reflection glared back at her in the black glass of her monitor: rumpled blazer, hair falling out of its bun, eyeliner smudged to shadows. The office around her was silent, rows of empty chairs glowing under harsh fluorescent light.
"Fine," she bit out. "But I'm coming straight from work."
"You will not embarrass this family by showing up looking like—" Emma caught herself, her tone shifting into icy elegance. "The blue Valentino is in your closet. Send Adams if you must."
The line cut. No goodbye. Just command and silence.
Scarlett stared at the dead phone in her hand, then at the digital clock in the corner of her screen.
7:45 PM.
Her stomach dropped. The gala had started forty-five minutes ago.
"Shit." The word echoed against the empty office walls.
As the city lights streaked past the window, Scarlett allowed herself one bitter, fleeting thought:
Tonight was going to be a disaster.
Scarlett's pulse thudded as the elevator doors closed, carrying her down from the empty office. No time to go home. No time to change. No time to slip into the Valentino her mother dictated.
Her reflection in the polished elevator walls mocked her—creased blazer, hair sliding from its bun, exhaustion etched into every line of her face. She pressed her lips together, panic clawing at her chest.
What the hell am I supposed to wear?
The lobby doors opened with a chime. And there, as if conjured by fate, Linda stood balancing a garment bag over one arm, her other hand clutching sketches and swatches. Scarlett's colleague, her friend, and the only person who knew how desperately she dreamed of opening her own boutique someday.
"Scar?" Linda's eyes scanned her quickly, catching the distress. "What's wrong?"
Scarlett let out a humorless laugh. "My mother just threatened to fire me if I don't show up at the gala. Which started—" she checked the time on her phone, "—forty minutes ago. And I look like... this."
Linda's brows knit, then her gaze flicked to the bag in her hand. Slowly, she smiled. "Maybe tonight isn't completely cursed."
Scarlett blinked. "What?"
"This." Linda lifted the garment bag and unzipped it just enough to reveal a flash of rich emerald silk. "It's one of my samples. Simple cut, sleeveless, hand-stitched. I was planning to photograph it for my portfolio, but..." Her eyes sparkled. "It'll look better on you than a mannequin."
Scarlett's throat tightened. "Linda, I can't—"
"You can." Linda thrust the bag into her arms. "You're not walking into that ballroom in a wrinkled blazer. And honestly? This dress deserves to be seen."
Minutes later, in the office bathroom, Scarlett slipped into the gown. The silk slid over her skin like a whisper, settling against her frame as if it had been waiting for her all along. No embellishments, no designer label, just clean lines and quiet elegance. A dress born of dreams, not demands.
She twisted her hair into a loose knot, letting strands fall in deliberate imperfection. A quick swipe of eyeliner, a touch of gloss from the forgotten tube in her purse.
Her reflection looked back at her: not the perfect debutante Emma Landon demanded, but a woman who could walk into a room full of predators and keep her chin high.
Scarlett exhaled, a shaky laugh escaping her lips. "It's not Valentino."
"It's better," Linda said from the doorway, pride in her eyes.
Scarlett grabbed her bag, the silk whispering around her ankles as she strode out. She didn't feel like her mother's pawn anymore.
She felt like herself.
And tonight, that would have to be enough.
Ethan Blackwood sat behind his sleek mahogany desk, the city skyline stretching endlessly beyond the glass behind him. Acquisition proposals glowed across his laptop screen, but he absorbed them without interest—numbers were easy. People were not.
The penthouse doorbell chimed.
He didn't look up. Security never allowed anyone through uninvited. "Enter."
Sarah Blackwood swept in like a gust of energy against the sterile perfection of his home. At sixty, she carried herself with unapologetic grace, silver streaks woven into her chignon like deliberate threads of power.
"You could greet your mother properly," she teased, leaning down to press a kiss to his cheek before seating herself opposite him, uninvited, unbothered.
Ethan closed his laptop with deliberate patience and poured her a glass of the wine he kept stocked only for her. "What do you want, Mother?"
"Direct as always." She accepted the glass with a smile that never quite reached her calculating eyes. "The Hamilton charity gala is tonight."
"Send them a check."
"Ethan." Her voice softened, though her gaze remained sharp. "When was the last time you left this building for anything other than business?"
"Time is money." The words rolled off his tongue by habit.
"So are relationships. The Richard family will be there. Emilia—remember her? Harvard, Goldman Sachs, brilliant girl."
Ethan set his scotch down harder than necessary. "Transparent, as always."
"Practical. Like you." Sarah leaned forward, voice dipped low. "Your grandfather mentioned he might visit you."
The unspoken warning landed precisely as she intended. Ethan's jaw tightened. "That's not fair."
"All's fair in family, darling."
The doorbell rang again. Ethan frowned. Two interruptions in one night?
John appeared, hesitation in his stance. "Sir, your grandfather—"
William Blackwood Sr. entered without waiting, his presence quiet yet absolute. Eighty-three years had thinned his frame but not his authority. His hair was white, his handshake still firm, his eyes—icy blue, sharp as steel.
"Grandfather. Why the sudden visit?" Ethan rose. Respect. For him alone.
"Can't visit my grandson without an agenda?" William lowered himself into a chair beside Sarah, his movements deliberate.
"You've never done anything without an agenda."
William laughed, the sound rich and real. "That's why you're sitting in that chair." His gaze pinned Ethan, cutting through him. "Sarah tells me you're too busy for the Hamilton gala."
"The European expansion—"
"Will be there Monday." William's voice carried the weight of an empire. "I built this company with sixteen-hour days, boy. Want to know what I regret?"
Ethan said nothing.
"Missing your father's plays. Sarah's piano recitals. Believing there'd always be more time." His voice roughened, just slightly. "I know you, Ethan. You make time when it matters. This matters to me."
The silence stretched taut between three generations.
Finally, Ethan gave a single nod. Precise. Reluctant. Final.
"Fine. But I leave when I want to leave."
William's eyes softened in victory. "Wouldn't expect anything less." He rose, steady despite the years. "Wear the navy Armani. Always was your color."
When they were gone, Ethan stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glittering beneath him.
"John," he said into the intercom.
"Yes, sir?"
"Make a donation to the Hamilton charity. One million. In the company's name. Announce it before the event."
"Of course."
"And get me the guest list. Particularly the Richards." A pause. "Car at eight sharp."
"Yes, sir."
Ethan returned to his reports, but the numbers swam, dissolving into nothing. For years he'd kept the world at bay with walls of work. Tonight, it seemed, those walls had a door.
Scarlett — 8:15 PM
The taxi screeched to a halt outside the Waverly Hotel at 8:15. Inside, through the glowing windows, Scarlett could see the crowd—gowns that shimmered under chandeliers, tuxedos as crisp as command.
She smoothed her silk dress with one trembling hand, the emerald catching the streetlights as though it carried its own quiet rebellion.
"Keep the change," she told the driver, shoving a bill into his hand before stepping out.
The doorman's eyes flickered, taking her in—simple dress, hurried hair—but his smile remained polished. "Good evening, miss."
Inside, the ballroom pulsed with the hum of laughter and clinking crystal. Scarlett inhaled, squared her shoulders, and stepped forward, the silk swishing at her ankles.
Time to face her mother.
Ethan..
His driver eased the black Bentley into the line of cars pulling up to the red carpet. Ethan adjusted his cufflinks, the navy Armani fitting like armor.
Through the tinted glass he watched the parade—women with diamond laughter, men pretending their phones were more interesting than the glittering room ahead.
"Sir?" The driver glanced back. "Shall I wait?"
Ethan almost said yes. Then his grandfather's words replayed—You make time when it matters to you.
"No. I'll call."
The driver nodded, already sensing what that meant. Tonight, Ethan Blackwood might actually stay.
He stepped out, the flash of cameras briefly igniting against his sharp jaw and cool eyes. One nod to the photographers, nothing more, before disappearing inside the thrumming crowd.
The gala had begun.
And fate was about to throw Scarlett Landon straight into his path.