4 - At the Charity Gala
The chandeliers bled gold across the ballroom, gilding everything they touched—silk gowns, crystal flutes, diamonds winking at strangers.
But Scarlett felt none of it.
Inside her chest churned a nauseous green—the color of seasickness, envy, or the quiet panic that came from standing in the wrong skin. She hovered at the edge of the glittering crowd, tugged at by a gown that didn't feel like hers.
Her mother's hand clamped around her wrist before she could retreat into the shadows. Emma Landon's nails—red, sharp, deliberate—dug crescents into her skin.
"What the hell are you wearing, Scarlett?"
Scarlett glanced down at the emerald silk flowing against her body. It was stunning but simple. Understated in a room obsessed with spectacle. And somehow, that made it more noticeable.
"It's beautiful," Scarlett murmured. "What's the problem, Mom?"
"I didn't think you'd actually wear something—" Emma waved her manicured hand, gesturing at her daughter like she was pointing out a flaw in a painting. Her mouth curled with disgust. "Ugh. Forget it."
A soft laugh sliced through the tension—smooth, amused, and entirely unbothered.
"Emma, you're terrorizing the poor girl."
Scarlett turned.
Her mother's childhood friend—though time had carved them into opposites. Emma was all tight shoulders and brittle posture; Sarah moved like water, the stem of her champagne flute hanging loosely between her fingers as though she'd been born with it.
Emma blinked, caught off guard. "Sarah... what a pleasant surprise?"
They embraced, lips brushing cheeks with the careful choreography of women who hadn't truly hugged in years.
Sarah's voice softened, laced with memory. "Emma, it's been years. Did you move here?"
"Yes, recently. I'm so happy to see you again after so long, Sarah." Emma adjusted her diamond bracelet—a gesture that was half habit, half armor. "Mathew expanded his business to this city, and Adam—well, his schooling required it. We've been busy. Too long."
For a fleeting second, the ballroom faded. The chandeliers, the gowns, the noise—all replaced by two girls running barefoot across sunlit lawns, whispering dreams into the wind.
But life had drawn its lines sharply after that.
Emma's voice cut through Scarlett's thoughts.
"Dear, this is Sarah," she said, with a soft but proud tilt of her chin. "We were family friends years ago... and drifted apart for far too long." She turned back toward her old friend. "Sarah, this is my daughter, Scarlett."
Sarah's eyes found her. Her smile was slow, radiant, reaching all the way to her eyes.
"You've become stunning," she said warmly. Her gaze swept Scarlett's figure—not with judgment, but admiration. "Don't let your mother's nerves make you second-guess yourself. You look so beautiful, dear."
Emma's lips tightened. "Nerves?" she echoed, voice crisp as glass. "I'm saving her from embarrassment."
The air between them thickened. Old affection. Old rivalry. The quiet war of differing worlds.
Scarlett stood between them, glowing under chandeliers that suddenly felt like interrogation lights.
Sarah leaned closer, jasmine and champagne softening the air. "It's just her way of caring," she whispered—but not quietly enough.
Scarlett caught Sarah's eye from across the room. The older woman tilted her head subtly toward a side door—an unspoken invitation, an escape route.
Her mother was still laughing with the same businessman, her smile flawless and hollow.
Scarlett slipped away.
The balcony doors stood ajar, letting in a breath of cool night. The city sprawled below—raw, imperfect, and honest compared to the glittering theater inside. She gripped the cold stone railing and exhaled for what felt like the first time all evening.
"Not your scene?"
Scarlett turned. Sarah stood beside her, moonlight softening the sharp lines of her elegance.
"Is it that obvious?"
Sarah smiled. "You look like you're about to face a firing squad." She leaned against the railing, voice quiet but sure. "You're different from the others."
Scarlett's lips curved faintly. "Bad different?"
"Refreshing different." Sarah's gaze was steady. "What do you actually do, Scarlett? And don't say charity work."
The question caught her off guard. No one ever asked what she wanted—only what she should want.
"I design clothes," she said finally. "Real clothes. Not..." She gestured at her gown. "Not costumes."
Sarah's brows rose, intrigued. "Do you? Can I see them?"
Scarlett blinked. "What?"
"Your designs," Sarah said gently. "Only if you want."
Scarlett hesitated. No one had ever asked to see her work. Not her mother, not anyone. The sketchbooks were her secret world, hidden under her bed, filled with dreams no one took seriously.
"They're just sketches. I don't have the money to—"
"Money's just a detail." Sarah studied her, eyes soft but intent. "Talent's harder to find."
Before Scarlett could reply, her mother's voice sliced through the stillness.
"There you are."
Emma's silhouette filled the doorway—every inch composed, her expression unreadable. Relief, suspicion, disappointment—they all flickered and vanished behind her perfect smile.
"Just getting some air," Scarlett said, trying to sound casual.
"Mmm." Emma's gaze shifted between the two women. "They're serving dessert. Sarah, you're coming, aren't you?"
"Wouldn't miss it." Sarah pushed off the railing, her tone light. "Scarlett was just telling me about her designs."
Emma's smile froze. "Her what?"
"Her fashion line." Sarah's voice was silk—soft, but with the weight of someone who always got what she wanted. "I think we should discuss funding."
The word hung in the air like a spark before lightning.
Emma's mouth opened, then closed. For once, the ever-composed Emma Landon had no words.
Finally, she snapped, "Sarah, I keep telling her to stop this nonsense and get married. But you—you're encouraging her?"
Sarah laughed softly, utterly unbothered. "Emma, I don't believe she's going to listen to you anyway."
Emma exhaled sharply, the sound half-sigh, half-surrender.
Scarlett followed them back inside, but the ballroom no longer looked the same. The chandeliers still burned gold, the air still shimmered with wealth—but something inside her had shifted.
Sarah's words echoed in her mind: Money's just a detail.
Maybe fairy tales didn't end with glass slippers.
Maybe they began with someone willing to write the check.
The orchestra swelled as the lights dimmed. A voice crackled through the speakers—smooth, commanding.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the annual Blackwood Charity Gala."
The crowd stirred, forming a path toward the stage. Scarlett lifted her gaze as a spotlight bloomed, carving through the dark.
And then—he stepped into it.
He moved with the quiet precision of someone born to own a room. The tuxedo was sculpted to him—black, severe, flawless. Each step measured. Controlled. The weight of old money and older expectations hung from his shoulders like a tailored shadow.
His hair, slicked back. His jaw, strong and deliberate. His eyes—cold gray, storm-colored, scanning the crowd not with curiosity but assessment.
Scarlett's breath caught. That face was too precise, too symmetrical, too practiced. Like a mask carved for power.
He handed a sleek envelope to the host with a small, perfectly timed smile.
"Blackwood Enterprises is honored to support tonight's cause," he said, his deep voice smooth enough to ripple through the marble walls. "We believe in giving back to the community. And tonight, we pledge—"
Scarlett snorted under her breath. "Let the peasants kiss the ring."
Sarah turned, amused. "Wow. Not a fan?"
"Giving with one hand, collecting tax write-offs with the other. It's all theater."
From nearby, Emma's voice hissed like a warning through clenched teeth. "Scarlett."
Her smile stayed fixed, perfect for the cameras—but her eyes flashed daggers.
Scarlett didn't reply. She didn't need to. The message had landed.
She caught her reflection in a nearby window. The gown. The posture. The practiced grace.
A role. Not a life.
The air pressed tighter around her. "I need air," she whispered, turning away before the walls could close in.
As she moved toward the balcony again, the chandeliers blurred, gold bleeding into white.
And from across the room, a pair of storm-gray eyes tracked her every step.
Ethan Blackwood's gaze followed her, unreadable.
Scarlett didn't know it yet—
—but Sarah's son had just noticed her.
And that, though neither of them realized it,
was where everything began.