**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.

**POV: Celeste**

I knew I was late. I also knew showing up in paint-stained jeans and a leather jacket would make Mother's eye twitch. Both facts brought me a petty satisfaction as I kicked my motorcycle into gear and roared toward the estate.

Traffic was lighter than expected, which meant I'd only be fifteen minutes late instead of thirty. Still enough to make an entrance, not enough to seem like I'd forgotten entirely.

The Ashford estate appeared through the trees, all pretentious stone and perfectly trimmed hedges. I pulled up next to Vivienne's Audi-of course she was already here, probably early-and killed the engine.

Through the dining room windows, I could see them all seated. Mother in her pearls. Father with his scotch. Vivienne looking immaculate as always. Isla practically invisible at the end of the table.

I checked my reflection in my phone screen. Eyeliner slightly smudged, hair wild from the helmet, paint-cadmium red-under my fingernails. Perfect.

The front door was unlocked. It always was on family dinner nights, like they were daring me to actually show up.

"Sorry I'm late!" I announced, pushing into the dining room with maximum dramatic flair.

Mother's lips pressed into that thin line I knew so well. "Celeste. You couldn't dress appropriately?"

"I came straight from the gallery." I dropped into my chair and immediately reached for the wine Father was pouring. "We're installing a new exhibition-very controversial piece about corporate greed and environmental destruction. The artist is brilliant but completely unhinged."

"How nice," Mother said in that tone that meant the opposite.

"The art world is so exhausting," I continued, taking a long drink. God, this was good wine. Trust Vivienne to bring the expensive stuff. "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, cutting her salmon with surgical precision.

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

Vivienne raised an eyebrow. "Not all art needs to be confrontational."

"Says the woman who probably has a Monet print in her office."

"Renoir, actually."

Of course it was. Vivienne would choose something safe and expensive and utterly predictable.

We fell into our familiar argument-me defending art as provocation, her advocating for aesthetic beauty, Mother trying to redirect toward something more appropriate. It was the same conversation we'd had a hundred times, and I knew my lines by heart.

The thing was, I didn't actually disagree with Vivienne. Not entirely. But agreeing would mean giving up my role, and what would I be if I wasn't the difficult middle daughter?

"Isla, you're being quiet," I said, suddenly noticing our youngest sister pushing food around her plate.

She looked up like a startled deer. "I'm just listening."

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

"I-"

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

I opened my mouth to argue-Isla wasn't reserved, she was erased-but Father cut in about some sculpture at his club and the moment passed.

Isla went back to her salmon. I went back to my wine.

The truth was, these dinners exhausted me. Playing the rebel took energy. Making sure every comment was just shocking enough to get attention but not enough to get disowned. Walking that tightrope between disappointing them and desperately wanting them to notice me.

"Your gallery," Father said, not quite looking at me. "Is it at least profitable?"

There it was. The question underneath all their polite inquiries. Are you wasting your life? Are you embarrassing us?

"We're doing well," I said, which was technically true if you ignored the months I'd had to borrow money from my trust fund to make rent.

"Well," he repeated, unconvinced.

"Actually," I said, the lie forming before I'd fully thought it through, "I'm curating an exclusive gala next month. Very high-profile donors. Billionaires, tech moguls, old money. The kind of people who buy Basquiat at auction."

Mother's attention sharpened. "Really?"

"Invitation only. We're showcasing emerging artists alongside established names. It's going to be the art event of the season."

This was maybe thirty percent true. I had been planning something for next month. I had a few wealthy clients. But "art event of the season" was generous, and "billionaires" was optimistic.

But Mother was looking at me with something other than disappointment, and I couldn't stop now.

"We're expecting Dominic Cross," I added, pulling a name I'd seen in the society pages. "His foundation does a lot with the arts. He's been very interested in our work."

Complete fabrication. I'd never spoken to Dominic Cross. I'd sent his foundation a generic sponsorship request three months ago and gotten a form letter rejection.

"Dominic Cross?" Vivienne's voice was strange. "You're working with him?"

"Well, his people. You know how it is with billionaires-layers of assistants and managers."

"That's quite impressive, Celeste," Father said, and I hated how much those words meant to me. How I'd just lied to get them.

"When is this gala?" Mother asked.

"Mid-October. I'll send you details." I'd have to actually make this happen now. Somehow. "It should be quite the spectacle."

"Do try to keep it tasteful," Mother said, but she was smiling. Actually smiling at me.

I wanted to throw my wine glass at the wall. I wanted to scream that I shouldn't have to lie about billionaire benefactors to earn a smile. I wanted to ask why Vivienne got approval for being exactly what they wanted while I had to perform rebellion just to be remembered.

Instead, I took another drink and changed the subject to some mutual acquaintance's scandalous divorce.

The rest of dinner blurred. Isla excused herself at some point-probably hiding in the bathroom like she always did when things got too much. Vivienne's phone kept buzzing. Mother went on about some charity committee.

I played my part. Provocative comments. Dramatic gestures. The wild child who refused to be tamed.

By the time I left, my face hurt from smiling.

I sat on my motorcycle in the driveway, helmet in my lap, staring up at the estate. Lights glowed warmly in every window, but the house had never felt less like home.

My phone buzzed. A text from my gallery assistant: *Installation is a disaster. Sculptor won't compromise on placement. Call me.*

And another from my landlord: *Rent is late again.*

I deleted both without responding.

Instead, I opened my browser and searched "Dominic Cross philanthropic interests art."

If I'd just promised my parents a gala with billionaire attendance, I'd better figure out how to deliver one.

**POV: Dominic**

The conference room at Sterling & Associates was designed to intimidate. Mahogany walls, leather chairs that cost more than most people's cars, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Elliott Bay. I'd been in this room dozens of times over the years, usually on the winning side of negotiations.

Today felt different.

Harrison's lawyers sat across from me-Gerald Morrison, senior partner, and two associates whose names I'd already forgotten. They'd been stalling for twenty minutes, shuffling papers and exchanging meaningful looks while I waited.

"Just tell me," I said finally. "Whatever conditions Harrison put in the will, I can handle it."

Gerald cleared his throat. "Mr. Cross, your mentor's estate is... substantial. As you know."

"Three billion, give or take. I helped him build most of it."

"Indeed. And he wanted to ensure it went to the right hands." Gerald slid a leather portfolio across the table. "However, there are conditions."

I opened it. Legal language filled the first page, dense and impenetrable. I skipped to the summary section.

Then read it again,like I knew nothing about the deal.

"This is a joke."

"I assure you, it's not."

"He's requiring me to get married? Within six months?" I looked up, waiting for the punchline. "That's insane. It has to be illegal."

"Actually, testamentary conditions regarding marriage are quite legal, provided they don't violate public policy. Mr. Sterling had every right to attach conditions to his bequest."

"Harrison died six months ago. You're telling me this now?"

"The will required a six-month waiting period before the marriage condition became active. That period ended yesterday." Gerald folded his hands. "As of today, you have exactly six months to marry, or the entire estate-including your controlling shares in Cross Industries-will be dissolved and donated to various charities."

The words blurred on the page. Marry or lose everything.

"There has to be a loophole."

"We've examined the will thoroughly. It's airtight."

I stood, pacing to the windows. Seattle spread below me, gray and drizzling. Somewhere down there, people were living normal lives. Dating without billion-dollar ultimatums. Marrying for love instead of inheritance clauses.

"Why?" I asked. "Why would Harrison do this?"

Gerald's expression softened. "He left a letter. Would you like me to read it?"

"Yes."

The lawyer pulled out an envelope, Harrison's distinctive handwriting on the front. *For Dominic, when he's ready to listen.*

Gerald began reading.

"Dominic, if you're hearing this, I'm gone and you're angry. Good. Be angry. But also listen. I made a fortune, built an empire, collected everything money could buy. And I died alone in a house with twelve bedrooms, surrounded by objects instead of people. You're headed down the same path, son. I've watched you work yourself to death for a decade, keeping everyone at arm's length, treating relationships like business transactions. A man with everything and no one to share it with has nothing. This condition isn't punishment-it's salvation. Find someone real. Build something that matters more than money. Don't end up like me."

The room fell silent.

"That's it?" My voice came out hoarse.

"There's more legal language, but that's the essence." Gerald closed the envelope. "He truly cared about you, Mr. Cross. This was his way of ensuring you didn't repeat his mistakes."

I returned to my seat, staring at the will. Six months. One hundred eighty-two days to find a wife or lose everything Harrison and I had built together.

"What are my options?"

"You could contest the will, but I don't recommend it. The language is solid, and litigation could take years. By then, the six-month deadline would have passed anyway."

"So I marry someone."

"Yes."

"Anyone?"

"The will doesn't specify particular qualities. Just that the marriage must be legal and in good faith-no arrangements that would obviously constitute fraud."

My mind raced through possibilities. There were women who would marry me in a heartbeat. Socialites, actresses, entrepreneurs who saw me as a means to an end. I could have my pick.

The thought made me sick.

"I've dated hundreds of women," I said quietly. "Dinners, galas, charity events. Not one of them was real."

Gerald raised an eyebrow. "Surely some of them-"

"They dated Dominic Cross, the billionaire. The name in the Forbes list. The man who could open doors and write checks." I thought of E.A.'s letters, her words from last night. *Do you ever feel like you're drowning in a room full of people?* "Not one of them wanted to know who I actually was."

"Perhaps this is an opportunity to find someone who does."

"In six months."

"People have married faster for worse reasons."

I laughed bitterly. "You're suggesting I find true love on a deadline."

"I'm suggesting you take Mr. Sterling's advice seriously. He knew you better than most."

The associates started gathering their papers, clearly eager to escape the tension. Gerald stood, straightening his suit.

"We'll need to schedule regular check-ins," he said. "To monitor your progress."

"You make it sound like a project."

"In a sense, it is. The estate is substantial, Mr. Cross. There are many parties interested in its disposition. If you fail to meet the terms, there will be considerable... complications."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning your competitors will be watching. Waiting. The moment that deadline passes, Cross Industries becomes vulnerable."

Perfect. Not only did I have to get married, I had to do it while sharks circled, waiting for me to fail.

After they left, I sat alone in the conference room, Harrison's letter on the table.

*Find someone real.*

My phone buzzed. Email notification. E.A. had written back.

*Dear D.C.,*

*Kids do make things less heavy. I hope your complicated choice gets easier. Whatever it is, I trust you'll do the right thing. You always seem to, even when it's hard.*

I stared at her words. Here was someone who knew me-really knew me-and thought I'd do the right thing. She had more faith in me than I had in myself right now.

She didn't know my net worth. Didn't know my name or face. Just knew my words, my thoughts, my fears. And somehow, that was enough for her to trust me.

*Find someone real.*

I typed a response.

*Dear E.A.,*

*I've dated hundreds. None of them were real. Except you.*

I deleted it. Too honest. Too revealing.

Besides, E.A. was a fantasy. A connection built on anonymity and distance. I couldn't marry someone I'd never met, whose name I didn't even know.

Could I?

The thought was absurd.

I closed my laptop and looked out at the city, six months stretching ahead like a prison sentence.

Somewhere out there was a woman I could marry. Someone suitable, appropriate, willing to play the part.

All I had to do was find her and convince both of us this was anything other than a business arrangement.

The rain picked up, streaking down the windows, and Harrison's words echoed in my head.

*Don't end up like me.*