**POV: Dominic**

The city sprawled beneath me like a glittering circuit board, twenty stories of glass and steel between me and the rest of Seattle. My penthouse had been featured in Architectural Digest twice-all clean lines, minimalist furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows that made visitors gasp.

I'd stopped noticing the view years ago.

I stood in my home office, scotch in hand, staring at my laptop screen. E.A.'s latest email glowed against the darkness, her words cutting straight through the numbness I'd worn like armor for the past decade.

*Sometimes I wonder if I'm just meant to be background noise in everyone else's story. The supporting character. The one people forget was even in the room.*

I read it again. Then again.

She got it. This stranger whose name I didn't know, whose face I'd never seen-she understood the particular hell of being surrounded by people and feeling completely alone.

I'd hosted a charity gala last night. Two hundred guests, fifty thousand dollars raised for Seattle Children's Hospital. Everyone had called it a success. My publicist was already pitching it for the society pages. And the entire time, I'd felt like I was watching myself from outside my body, performing the role of Dominic Cross, billionaire philanthropist.

Not a single person had asked how I was doing. Not really.

Except E.A.

I scrolled up through our correspondence, rereading her response to my question about loneliness.

*You're not crazy. What you described-drowning in a room full of people-that's my every family dinner.*

Two years of letters. Two years of finding connection in the one place I'd never expected it-a hospital charity pen-pal program I'd agreed to as a PR move. My assistant had set it up, encouraged me to write a few generic letters to make the foundation look good.

I'd planned to write once and forget about it.

Then E.A. had written back-something honest and searching and real-and I couldn't stop.

"Mr. Cross?"

I turned. James Cooper, my COO and the closest thing I had to a friend, stood in the doorway of my office. I hadn't heard him come in.

"I used the elevator code you gave me," he said, holding up his phone. "Hope that's okay. We need to talk."

The knot that had loosened while reading E.A.'s letter tightened again. James only showed up at my apartment when there was a problem.

"What is it?"

He crossed to my desk, setting down a leather portfolio. "The lawyers called. About Harrison's will."

Harrison Sterling. My mentor, my surrogate father, the man who'd pulled me from nothing and taught me how to build an empire. Dead six months now, and his final joke was still making my life hell.

"What about it?" I took a drink, letting the scotch burn.

"They want to remind you that you have exactly six months left to fulfill the terms. As of today."

Six months.

Six months to get married or lose everything Harrison had left me. Three billion dollars, controlling shares in Cross Industries, properties across three continents-all of it contingent on me finding a wife.

"A man with everything and no one to share it with has nothing," James quoted from the will. "Harrison really believed that, didn't he?"

"Harrison died alone in a house with twelve bedrooms." I set down my glass harder than necessary. "Maybe he had a point."

"So what's the plan? You can't actually be considering letting it all go."

I looked back at my laptop, at E.A.'s words still glowing on the screen. *Is it pathetic that my most meaningful relationship is with someone I've never met?*

"The plan," I said slowly, "is that I have six months to figure out if I'm willing to marry for money or if I'd rather start over."

James stared at me. "You're kidding."

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

"Dom, this isn't just money. This is your life's work. Everything you and Harrison built together. The foundation, the company, the legacy-"

"I know what it is."

"Then you know you can't just walk away. Find someone. There are plenty of women who'd marry you."

I laughed, the sound bitter. "Yeah. Plenty who'd marry Dominic Cross, billionaire. Not one who'd marry Dominic Santos, the immigrant kid who started with nothing."

James fell silent. He knew that story-knew that I'd changed my name when I entered Harrison's world, trying to shed the kid whose parents had died broke, leaving him with nothing but debt and grief.

"So what are you going to do?" he asked finally.

I closed my laptop, E.A.'s letter disappearing from view. "I'm going to try to find something real. If that's even possible in the next six months."

"And if you don't?"

"Then I guess I'll find out what it's like to be Dominic Santos again."

James shook his head. "You've changed. Two years ago, you would've picked the most suitable socialite and gotten it over with."

He wasn't wrong. Two years ago, before E.A.'s letters, I would have approached marriage like any other business transaction. Find someone appropriate, negotiate terms, sign the contract.

But now I knew what real connection felt like, even if it was only through words on a screen. I knew what it was like to be truly seen by someone. And the thought of marrying someone I could never be honest with, never be real with-it made me feel like I was suffocating.

"The lawyers are arranging meetings with potential candidates," James continued. "Society women, businesswomen, a few actresses. All perfectly suitable."

"How romantic."

"It's practical. Which is what you need right now."

After James left, I returned to my laptop. E.A. had written again while we'd been talking-a short follow-up to her earlier letter.

*P.S. - I hope you don't think I'm always this melancholy. I had a good day at work today. There's a little girl in room 342 who calls me her "favorite nurse" even though I'm probably terrible at this job. She made me a bracelet out of surgical tubing and said it was magic. Kids have a way of making everything feel less heavy, don't they?*

I smiled despite myself. She worked with children. That was new information. In two years, we'd shared so much emotionally but kept concrete details vague-part of the safety of our arrangement. She knew I was wealthy and in business. I knew she worked in healthcare. Beyond that, we'd never asked.

Maybe that was why it worked. We couldn't perform for each other because we didn't know what roles we were supposed to play.

I typed a response.

*Dear E.A.,*

*Kids do make things less heavy. I fund a children's hospital here in Seattle-it's one of the few things I do that feels meaningful. Maybe because kids don't care about my net worth or my connections. They just want someone to talk to them like they matter.*

*Your family doesn't deserve you, by the way. I know I've said it before, but it bears repeating.*

I paused, fingers hovering over the keys. There was so much I wanted to tell her. About Harrison's will, about the impossible choice ahead of me, about how her letters were the only thing that felt real anymore.

But I couldn't. Because then I'd have to explain who I was, and she might look me up, and suddenly she'd become like everyone else-seeing Dominic Cross instead of just... me.

*I have something complicated coming up. A choice to make. I'll probably need your wisdom before it's over.*

*Sleep well.*

*- D.C.*

I hit send and sat back, looking out at the city lights.

Six months to find a wife. Six months to secure everything I'd built.

And somewhere in this city-or maybe across the country, I had no idea-was a woman who saw me clearer than anyone ever had. A woman whose name I didn't know, whose face I'd never seen.

I looked back at E.A.'s letter one more time, at her question: *Is it pathetic that my most meaningful relationship is with someone I've never met?*

"Who are you?" I whispered gently to the screen.

# CHAPTER 3

**POV: Isla**

The Ashford family estate loomed before me like a museum-all stone facade and manicured hedges, perfectly symmetrical and utterly cold. I sat in my decade-old Honda in the circular driveway, watching the lights glow in the dining room windows. Vivienne's sleek Audi was already parked near the entrance. Celeste's vintage motorcycle leaned on its kickstand by the garage.

Seven o'clock sharp, Vivienne had said. I was five minutes early, which meant I would be the first one seated. Always eager, always trying, never quite measuring up.

I grabbed the bottle of wine I'd brought-nothing expensive, not like what my sisters would arrive with, but the clerk had promised it was good-and made my way to the front door.

"Isla." My mother opened the door before I could knock, already dressed for dinner in a cream silk blouse and pearls. Margaret Ashford didn't do casual. "You're early."

"I can wait in the-"

"Don't be ridiculous. Come in." She turned and walked away before I could finish my sentence, heels clicking on the marble foyer.

I followed her through the house I'd grown up in, past family photos where I always stood slightly behind my sisters, past the piano no one played anymore, into the formal dining room where the table was already set with Mother's best china.

"I brought wine," I offered, holding up the bottle.

She glanced at it without really looking. "That's nice, dear. Set it on the sideboard."

I did as instructed, watching as she adjusted a fork that was already perfectly aligned. Everything in the Ashford house had its place. Including me-which was nowhere specific, just somewhere out of the way.

"How was work this week?" I tried.

"Busy. The hospital charity board is demanding more oversight. Richard!" She raised her voice toward the study. "They're here!"

"I meant my work. At the hospital. We had this little girl who-"

"Vivienne, darling!" Mother's face transformed as my eldest sister swept into the room, all confidence and designer labels. "You look stunning. Is that new?"

"Theory's fall collection." Vivienne set down a bottle of wine that probably cost more than my rent. "The Bordeaux you like, Mother."

"You're always so thoughtful."

I stood by the sideboard, holding my cheaper bottle, invisible as always.

My father entered next, Richard Ashford in his custom three-piece suit even at home. He kissed Mother's cheek, nodded at Vivienne, and walked past me to the bar cart without acknowledgment.

"Where's Celeste?" he asked.

"Late, as usual," Vivienne said, settling into her chair with practiced grace. "She texted that she's on her way."

Mother sighed. "That girl. Isla, sit down. We won't wait for your sister."

I took my usual seat-the one closest to the kitchen, easiest to get up from when something needed fetching-and folded my hands in my lap.

"So, Vivienne," Father said, pouring himself scotch. "Tell me about the Meridian case. I heard you're close to a settlement."

Vivienne launched into a detailed explanation of corporate merger complications while Mother listened with rapt attention. I watched them, the way they leaned forward, engaged. The way Father asked follow-up questions and Mother made impressed sounds.

This was how dinner always went. Vivienne discussing her important cases, Celeste eventually arriving with some dramatic story about the art world, and me...

"The nursing staff threw a birthday party for one of our long-term patients this week," I said when Vivienne paused for breath. "Seven years old, been fighting leukemia for-"

"That reminds me," Mother interrupted, not even looking at me. "Vivienne, didn't you say your firm handles medical malpractice? The Hendersons were asking about representation."

"We do, actually. I can make an introduction."

"How's your hospital thing going, Isla?" Father asked absently, still focused on his scotch.

"It's good. Like I was saying, this little girl-"

"Sorry I'm late!" Celeste burst through the door in paint-stained jeans and a leather jacket, her auburn hair wild. "You would not believe the day I've had."

"Celeste." Mother's voice went tight. "You couldn't dress appropriately?"

"I came straight from the gallery. We're installing a new exhibition-very controversial piece about corporate greed and environmental destruction. The artist is brilliant but completely unhinged." She threw herself into the chair across from me. "Hi, Isla."

"Hi," I managed.

"The art world is so exhausting," Celeste continued, accepting the wine Father poured for her. "Everyone has an opinion, everyone's offended by something. Last week someone called my curatorial choices 'deliberately provocative.' Like that's a bad thing."

"Well, you do try to shock people," Vivienne said dryly.

"That's the point of art. It should make you uncomfortable."

They launched into a debate about artistic merit versus commercial viability. Mother chimed in about the pieces she'd seen at a recent museum gala. Father mentioned a sculpture he'd considered buying.

I cut my salmon into smaller and smaller pieces, chewing slowly, trying to take up as little space as possible.

"Isla, you're being quiet," Celeste said suddenly.

Everyone looked at me. I froze, fork halfway to my mouth.

"I'm just listening."

"You always just listen. Don't you have opinions?"

"I-"

"Celeste, don't badger your sister," Mother said. "Some people are naturally more reserved."

Reserved. That was the polite word for invisible.

"I was trying to mention earlier," I said, voice smaller than I wanted, "we had this patient who-"

"Oh, Vivienne, I almost forgot," Mother cut in, pulling out her phone. "I need to show you the invitation to the Wellington charity gala. You should definitely attend. Excellent networking opportunity."

"Send it to me," Vivienne said.

I set down my fork. The salmon tasted like cardboard anyway.

The conversation flowed around me like water around a stone. Vivienne's latest courtroom victory. Celeste's upcoming gallery opening. Father's golf handicap. Mother's committee work. My sisters were brilliant stars in their respective orbits, commanding every room they entered.

And I was...

"At least two of you are making something of yourselves," Mother said, refilling her wine glass. "Isla, dear, how's your... hospital thing?"

My hospital thing. Three years of nursing school. Four years working pediatric oncology. Countless nights holding scared children's hands through painful procedures. All of it reduced to "your hospital thing."

"It's good," I said.

"That's nice, dear."

Father didn't even glance up from his phone.

Celeste and Vivienne had already moved on to discussing some mutual acquaintance's scandalous divorce.

I excused myself to use the bathroom-no one noticed-and stood in the powder room staring at my reflection. Same brown hair, same hazel eyes, same forgettable features. Nothing like Vivienne's sharp elegance or Celeste's wild beauty.

My phone buzzed. An email notification.

D.C. had written back.

*Dear E.A.,*

*Your family doesn't deserve you, by the way. I know I've said it before, but it bears repeating.*

I read it three times, feeling something warm unfurl in my chest.

When I returned to the dining room, they were discussing vacation homes. Vivienne was considering Tuscany. Celeste wanted something in Bali. No one asked if I had gone anywhere.

I watched my sisters command attention, watched my parents hang on their every word, and felt the familiar weight of invisibility settle over my shoulders.

A ghost at my own family dinner.

That's all I'd ever be to them.

**POV: Vivienne**

I swirled the Bordeaux in my glass, watching the candlelight catch in the deep red liquid. Mother was telling some story about the Wellington charity committee, and I made the appropriate listening sounds while my mind wandered to the Meridian settlement I would closed yesterday.

Forty-two million dollars. Three months of brutal negotiation. The client had sent a fruit basket to my office that was absurdly large-like something you'd see in a hotel lobby.

I should have felt triumphant. Instead, I felt nothing.

"Don't you think so, Vivienne?" Mother's voice pulled me back.

"Absolutely," I said smoothly, having no idea what she'd asked.

She smiled, satisfied, and continued talking. I'd perfected the art of appearing engaged while being completely absent. Just another skill in my repertoire of being exactly what everyone expected.

Vivienne Grace Ashford. Senior partner at thirty-one. The daughter who'd done everything right. Law school at Columbia, summer associate position at the city's most prestigious firm, partnership track completed two years early.

Perfect on paper.

Hollow in practice.

"The Hendersons specifically asked for you," Father said, leaning forward with that look he got when discussing business. "Medical malpractice isn't your specialty, but they trust the Ashford name."

"I'll make time for a consultation," I said, mentally calculating which associate I could pass it to. My calendar was already impossible.

Across the table, Isla was cutting her salmon into microscopic pieces, saying nothing. She'd tried to speak earlier-something about a patient-but honestly, hospital small talk wasn't exactly riveting dinner conversation. Besides, she'd barely gotten two words out before trailing off like she always did.

Celeste, at least, brought energy to these dinners. Drama and chaos, yes, but energy.

Isla just... existed quietly. Like furniture.

"Vivienne, darling, you look tired," Mother observed. "Are you sleeping enough?"

"I'm fine. Just busy."

"All work and no play," she said with a knowing smile. "You should come to the museum gala next month. Lots of eligible men."

I forced a smile. "I'll check my calendar."

Ten years ago, I would have rolled my eyes at Mother's matchmaking attempts. Now I just deflected and moved on. It was easier than explaining that I didn't want eligible men. I wanted...

I shut down that thought before it could fully form.

"Speaking of work," Father said, "how's the Morrison account progressing?"

I launched into an explanation of discovery disputes and depositions, watching my parents' faces light up with approval. This was what they wanted. This was what I was good at.

Achievement. Success. The Ashford name elevated through my accomplishments.

Never mind that I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt genuinely happy. Never mind that I came home to an empty apartment every night and ate takeout over my laptop, reviewing briefs until my eyes burned.

Never mind that sometimes, late at night when the city was quiet, I let myself remember what it felt like to want something more than a winning case.

My phone buzzed in my purse. I ignored it-Mother hated phones at the dinner table-but it buzzed again. And again.

"Excuse me," I said, pulling it out. "I'm expecting news on a filing deadline."

Three missed calls from my assistant. Two texts. One voicemail.

I stood, moving toward the hallway. "I need to take this."

In the quiet of the foyer, I dialed my voicemail.

"Ms. Ashford, it's Patricia. I know it's Saturday evening, but we just received a request for a Monday morning meeting. New client, very high profile. They specifically asked for you. Cross Industries-they need counsel for an unusual inheritance matter. I've tentatively scheduled you for nine a.m., but call me if you need to adjust."

Cross Industries.

The phone nearly slipped from my hand.

I knew that name. Everyone in Seattle knew that name. Dominic Cross, the billionaire who'd built an empire before thirty-five. Real estate, tech investments, venture capital. The man was untouchable.

And he needed counsel.

This was the kind of client that made careers.

I steadied my breathing and texted Patricia back: *9 a.m. Monday confirmed. Send all available background.*

"Everything all right?" Celeste had followed me into the foyer, wine glass in hand.

"Fine. New client meeting Monday."

"On a Saturday night. God, Viv, do you ever turn it off?"

"Some of us have careers that require-" I stopped myself. We'd had this argument too many times. Celeste chose art and instability. I chose law and security. Neither of us would convince the other.

"Never mind," she said. "I was just checking on you. You seemed distant at dinner."

"I'm always distant at these dinners."

"True." She took a sip of wine. "You ever think about why we keep coming back? They barely notice Isla exists, they think I'm a perpetual disappointment, and you're only valuable when you're achieving something."

"That's not-"

"It is. You know it is." She shrugged. "But we keep showing up. Dutiful daughters playing our assigned roles."

I wanted to argue, but she wasn't wrong. We were all performing. Vivienne the Perfect. Celeste the Rebel. Isla the... whatever Isla was. Quiet? Forgettable?

God, that sounded cruel even thinking it.

"I should get back," I said.

"Sure. Wouldn't want them to think you're slacking."

I returned to find dessert being served-Mother's housekeeper had made crème brûlée-and slipped back into my seat. The conversation had moved on to vacation properties. Celeste was advocating for Bali with her usual dramatic flair.

I cracked the caramelized sugar with my spoon and let my mind drift to Monday's meeting.

Cross Industries. Dominic Cross.

The name pulled at something in my memory, something old and buried. But that was impossible. I'd never met the man. He traveled in circles far above where I'd started.

Ten years ago, I'd been a scholarship student eating ramen and studying until three a.m. I'd been dating a boy with more ambition than money, dreaming of building something together.

Dominic Santos, he'd called himself. Dominican heritage, immigrant parents, a chip on his shoulder the size of Manhattan and a smile that made me forget every responsible plan I would ever made.

I'd loved him. God help me, I'd loved him.

And then I'd gotten the offer. Senior associate position in New York. My dream job. Everything I'd worked for.

He'd asked me to stay. To build something with him instead. To choose us over achievement.

I'd chosen the job.

I took a bite of crème brûlée and tasted nothing but ash and regret.

That was a lifetime ago. Dominic Santos had probably moved on, probably married someone more adventurous than me, probably forgot my name years ago.

And I'd become exactly what I'd always planned to become: successful, respected, utterly alone.

My phone lit up with Patricia's email. Background on Cross Industries. History of the company. Bio of Dominic Cross.

I would read it later, in my empty apartment, over wine and takeout.

For now, I smiled at my parents' approval, accepted their praise for the Meridian settlement, and played my part.

The perfect daughter.

My phone stayed face-down on the table, but I could feel its weight. Cross Industries. Monday morning.

A chance at the kind of client that could define my entire career.