**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.*

**POV: Isla**

The clock on my nightstand read 2:47 a.m. I should have been asleep. I had a twelve-hour shift starting in five hours. But sleep felt impossible after the dinner at my parents' house, after watching my sisters shine while I faded into the wallpaper.

I sat cross-legged on my bed, laptop balanced on my knees, the glow of the screen the only light in my studio apartment. Outside, Seattle was finally quiet, the usual traffic noise reduced to an occasional car passing below my window.

This was my favorite time. When the world slept and I could exist without apologizing for it.

D.C.'s last email was still open. *I have something complicated coming up. A choice to make. I'll probably need your wisdom before it's over.*

I wondered what kind of choice kept a man like him awake. From his letters, I knew he was successful-wealthy, even-but lonely in a way that money couldn't fix. We'd never exchanged specifics. No last names, no companies, no details that would shatter the safety of our anonymous connection.

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

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I should write something hopeful, something that would help with whatever decision he was facing.

Instead, I wrote the truth.

*Dear D.C.,*

*I went to family dinner tonight. I shouldn't let it bother me anymore-I'm twenty-five, old enough to know better-but it does.*

*My mother spoke over me three times. Not interrupting, exactly. Just talking like I hadn't been speaking at all, like my voice was white noise she'd learned to tune out. My father asked my sister about her work while I was mid-sentence about mine. And my sisters... they don't do it on purpose, but they take up so much space that there's none left for me.*

*I've spent my whole life being background noise in other people's stories. The supporting character who exists to make everyone else look better by comparison.*

I stopped, deleting the last sentence. Too bitter. Too self-pitying.

But wasn't that what these letters were for? Being honest in a way I couldn't be anywhere else?

I retyped it.

*The worst part is wondering if this is just who I am. If some people are meant to be invisible. If I'm one of them.*

*Do you ever wonder if you'll ever be someone's first choice? Not their backup plan or their last resort, but the person they choose before anyone else?*

*I wonder that all the time.*

My eyes burned. I wiped them roughly with my sleeve, annoyed at myself for crying over something so familiar it shouldn't hurt anymore.

*Sorry. That got darker than I meant it to. Ignore me-I'm just tired.*

*Your complicated choice, whatever it is-I hope you find clarity. You deserve good things. You deserve to be happy.*

*Sleep well.*

*E.A.*

I hit send before I could second-guess myself, then immediately regretted it. Too much. Too vulnerable. He'd think I was pathetic.

My phone buzzed with a text from Elena, my coworker and closest friend.

**Elena:** *You awake?*

**Me:** *Unfortunately*

**Elena:** *Bad dinner with the family?*

**Me:** *The usual*

**Elena:** *Your family is the worst. Come over tomorrow after your shift. I'll make margaritas and we can trash talk them properly*

I smiled despite myself. Elena had been trying to adopt me since we started working together three years ago. She insisted my family was emotionally abusive, that I should set boundaries, maybe get therapy.

She wasn't wrong. But knowing something intellectually and feeling it emotionally were different things.

**Me:** *I'll be there*

I set my phone aside and closed my laptop, sliding under the covers. The twinkle lights above my bed cast soft shadows on the ceiling. I'd bought them because they reminded me of stars, and stars reminded me that there was a whole universe beyond my small, invisible life.

My laptop chimed. New email.

I told myself not to check it. I needed sleep. But D.C. never wrote back this fast unless-

I grabbed the laptop.

*Dear E.A.,*

*I just got home from the worst meeting of my life. I'm standing in my apartment that costs more than most houses, looking at a city I helped shape through investments and development, and all I can think is: what's the point?*

*Then I read your email.*

*I wish I could tell you that you're wrong about being background noise. But I think I understand exactly what you mean. I'm surrounded by people constantly-meetings, dinners, events-and I feel invisible too. They see my money, my name, what I can do for them. They don't see me.*

*Except you. Somehow, you see me.*

*To answer your question: yes. I wonder all the time if anyone will ever choose me for who I am instead of what I have. I've dated dozens of women who would marry me tomorrow, but not one of them knows my favorite book or what I'm afraid of or what I dream about at three in the morning.*

*You know all of those things.*

*I don't think you're meant to be invisible. I think you've been surrounded by people who are too blind or too selfish to see what's right in front of them. Their failure to see you doesn't make you less visible. It makes them less observant.*

*You asked if you'll ever be someone's first choice. E.A., you're already someone's first choice. You're mine. In two years of writing to you, I've never wanted to write to anyone else. I check my email compulsively hoping you've responded. Your letters are the best part of my day.*

*You matter. You've always mattered.*

*I'm sorry your family can't see that. But I do.*

*Get some sleep. Dream of better things than background noise.*

*Yours,*

*D.C.*

I read it three times, tears streaming down my face.

He saw me.

A stranger whose face I'd never seen, whose real name I didn't know, whose life existed in some parallel universe to mine-he saw me in a way my own family never had.

I wanted to write back immediately, to tell him that his letters kept me alive some days, that he was my first choice too, that I'd rather have this anonymous connection than any real relationship I'd ever attempted.

But my eyes were too blurry to see the keyboard, and my chest ached with something that felt like hope and hurt tangled together.

Instead, I saved his email in the folder where I kept all his letters. Two years of correspondence. Two years of being seen.

I turned off the lights and lay in the darkness, his words echoing in my mind.

*You're already someone's first choice. You're mine.*

Across the city, in some expensive apartment I'd never see, D.C. was probably still awake, dealing with whatever complicated choice he was facing.

I hoped he knew that he was my first choice too. That if we ever met in real life, I'd choose him. Always.

Though we'd never meet. That was the nature of our connection-safe because it was distant, honest because it was anonymous.

My alarm would go off in four hours. I needed sleep.