30. Abigail
ABIGAIL
The Grand Hotel’s conference room could pass for the setting of a Bond villain’s dramatic entrance.
It’s massive. Easily big enough to park a superyacht and still have room to stretch your legs.
Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling like something out of a fantasy, and floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the far wall, revealing the city glowing below. Everything sparkles.
Tables dressed in crisp white linen are topped with lush bouquets of hydrangeas, roses, and peonies, all in shades of ivory and cream. The only thing that jars the illusion is the enormous LED screen looming behind the stage.
I’m wearing a simple black dress, like always. It hugs in the right places without clinging, falling just above my ankles. The single-shoulder cut nudges it into elegance without making me feel like I’m pretending to be someone I’m not. It’s not flashy, but I feel beautiful.
Still, as polished as this night feels, the energy around Will is chaotic in its own way. People orbit him like he’s some kind of rock star. Even with me on his arm, women don’t hesitate to make their interest known.
Case in point: Casey Bell. No idea what she does.
PR, maybe, or real estate? Doesn’t matter.
She floated in wearing a white dress that looked spray-painted on, curves on full display.
She glanced at me, issued a silent judgment—she’s the more attractive one—and then focused all her attention on Will. Right in front of me.
But I didn’t flinch. He shut her down with practiced ease. Not unkind, but clear. Like always.
It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. But I don’t worry about women like Casey. They may be bold, but they don’t matter.
There’s only one woman tonight who does.
Silvia Carter.
Will’s mom is intensely private. There’s no playbook for someone like her.
No secondhand advice. No friend-of-a-friend who’s cracked the code.
Just a towering reputation and a set of expectations no one has ever seen written down.
Part of me hopes she cancels. Honestly, I’d be relieved.
Anything to avoid the slow-burn anxiety that’s been climbing my spine all day.
Until then, I stay close to Will, a little closer than usual.
Like he might be the only thing anchoring me here.
He moves through the room with effortless ease. He doesn’t chase the crowd. They come to him. Executives, clients, board members, and people I can’t even place flock in, each one hungry for a sliver of his attention. And I get it. He’s magnetic.
Tall and polished in a black suit, white shirt, and bow tie. Even among a hundred men dressed just like him, he stands out. He doesn’t even try.
And every so often, I catch myself looking up at him, still wondering how I got so lucky.
As I drain the last sip of champagne, Will taps my hand and tilts his head toward the entrance. One glance in that direction tells me everything I need to know.
Silvia’s here.
He leans in close. “Best to get this over with,” he says.
My grip tightens around the empty glass. With a quick, polite excuse to the two men he’d been speaking with, Will guides me across the room. Each step feels heavier than the last. I try to match his pace, but my stomach knots the moment her eyes land on me.
Silvia Carter’s disapproval hits fast and hard. She gives me a slow, deliberate once-over. Her expression sours, like she’s just bitten into something slightly off.
Everything about her is engineered and exact.
Her ash-blonde hair is swept back without a single strand out of place, styled in a way that whispers quiet wealth and practiced elegance.
Her face is all angles and control: high cheekbones, a sculpted nose, sharp blue eyes that flick like a blade, and lips painted in a red so precise it might as well be stenciled on.
She’s taller than I expected, poised on stilettos so needle-thin they seem to defy gravity. I imagine them punching holes through the floor with every step. But then again, she’s willowy. So thin it looks almost painful, as if there’s barely enough weight for the heels to carry.
Her outfit is a masterclass in power dressing.
A crisp white blouse, architectural, with a standing collar and sleeves that flare.
Each cuff is cinched with an oversized bow.
It’s tucked seamlessly into a high-waisted black skirt made of some luxurious silk blend that catches the light like it knows it should.
Around one wrist, a chunky gold bracelet glints.
Of course she understands fashion. She is fashion. CEO of one of the most successful luxury fashion houses in the country. Standing in front of her, I feel myself shrink without moving an inch. The dress I’d spent hours choosing suddenly feels naive by comparison.
Will introduces us. Silvia extends a hand. Her fingers are long, thin and cold.
“You’re a lawyer?” she asks, but it sounds more like an accusation.
“Yes.”
“And where do you work?”
“Strauss and Associates.”
“Never heard of it.” She turns to Will, like he has something to answer for.
“We’re not that big,” I offer, then immediately wince at how small and awkward it sounds.
Silvia’s eyes shift back to me. One brow lifts, almost imperceptibly.
“That’s a lovely blouse,” I say.
“Yes,” she replies, as though the compliment were a statement of fact.
Alright. My confidence starts to dip. I should just shut up.
“Henry coming?” Will asks, a clear attempt to redirect.
“He’s not. Darling, could you get me a glass of champagne?” Silvia’s voice slips into something just shy of sweet. Too polished to be sincere.
My stomach drops. I don’t want him to leave me here alone.
“We’ll go to the bar together,” Will offers, slipping an arm around my waist.
My stomach drops. I don’t want him to leave, but I also don’t want Silvia to think I can’t handle a conversation without him.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, forcing a smile as I hand him my empty glass. “I’ll have another.”
Will hesitates, just a beat too long, then turns and walks toward the bar. He moves faster than usual.
Silvia watches him go, then turns her full attention on me. Whatever civility she had a moment ago evaporates. I suddenly feel like a child about to be scolded.
“I hear you don’t believe in prenuptial agreements,” she says. It’s not a question. It’s a landmine.
“I don’t,” I say, steady and unapologetic.
Her laugh is barely audible. A sound like ice cracking under pressure. “And you expect a man like my son to marry you?”
I meet her gaze and hold it. She straightens, hands settling on her hips. The gesture is subtle, but it reads like a challenge. A woman used to watching people shrink beneath her stare.
Only, I don’t.
“We’re not there yet. But if we ever are, I’d sign whatever he asked me to.”
There’s a pause. Then something shifts. A subtle loosening in her posture. Her lips press together in what could almost be mistaken for a smile. Barely—but it’s there. She gives a faint shrug, and I take it for what it is: a signal that the ground between us has steadied, if only slightly.
With that slight softening in her steeliness, I take the opportunity to make some ground.
“Those heels look like torture,” I say, nodding toward her stilettos.
“They’re manageable,” she replies coolly, but another faint smile tugs at her lips. “As long as I avoid grates.”
It’s not warmth. But it’s no longer glacial.
Then she asks, “Who dressed you tonight?”
The question catches me off guard. Dressed me? Like I have a personal stylist?
“It’s a James Marigold,” I say, smoothing the fabric without thinking.
Her eyes sweep over the dress again, like a tailor checking a hem for flaws.
“It’s appropriate,” she says at last. “Though a Carter would’ve been more refined. Emerald would have done far more for your complexion than black. It can be a bit draining on certain skin tones.”
She means mine. But somehow, it doesn’t feel like an insult.
As Will returns, two glasses of champagne in hand, I feel the faintest flicker of hope. Tentative, but real.
Maybe this won’t be a total disaster.
The night drags on. Who knew handing out awards could take so long?
Best Hair Salon goes to a woman in a glittering sequined blazer. Best New Business is awarded to a lanky man swimming in an oversized suit. He stammers through his speech, fingers trembling as he nearly drops the plaque.
The categories keep coming: Sustainability Champion. Best Workplace Culture. Community Impact. One after another, the names blur. Applause swells, then fades. Dinner is served, and then we launch into the second half. I’m beginning to understand why Will avoids these events.
After what feels like hours, Will nudges me.
“Next one’s ours.”
He slips his phone into my hand. I rest it absently on my lap, my attention drifting to Silvia two tables ahead. Her posture is ramrod straight, her applause a beat too late, like she’s out of sync with the room around her.
The announcer’s voice cuts through the low hum.
“And now, our final award of the evening: Business of the Year.”
He clears his throat. The room quiets, the weight of the moment settling in.
“This is always our most challenging decision. We look to honor a company that not only leads in its industry, but also leaves an indelible mark on our community. Through innovation, vision, and an unwavering commitment to making Alton Hills a better place for all.”
A pause. Then the envelope opens.
“And the winner is…Carter & Ross.”
Applause erupts. It’s by far the loudest of the evening. Will rises and makes his way to the stage.
“Guess I should start with ‘Thank you,’” he begins.
His speech is off-the-cuff. Natural. Confident. Easy.
I glance at Silvia as he talks. Her expression is unreadable, but there’s something there. A flicker of pride, maybe.
The phone in my lap buzzes.
I glance down.
And everything stops.
Donovan: You have my word, she’ll never know.
It can’t be.
I shake my head, dismissing the thought. It’s another Donovan. It has to be.