~~
When Ivy says, "we're going shopping," she means you're going broke and carrying bags while I judge your taste.
After I got the job offer—and after the dramatic screaming session that followed—Ivy insisted that we couldn't just "wing it" into Richard King's empire or Tasha's birthday bash.
"Boss or birthday, you need to dress like someone who knows what contouring is," she said, tossing hangers at me in Zara like she was assembling a Barbie doll.
Sophia met us at the mall with an iced coffee in one hand and a look that screamed 'fashion reinforcements have arrived.'
"Okay," she declared, taking one look at my workwear pile. "Let's burn all that and start over."
So yeah. I was bullied. Into being stylish.
By the time we were done, I had:
Two solid office blazers
One new pair of slacks (with pockets—God is real)
A dress I never would have picked for myself if not for Ivy dramatically whispering, "Lily. This is your villain origin dress."
And strappy black heels that were clearly designed by Satan for ankle assassination.
"Okay, now that you've agreed to have taste," Sophia said, "let me send the itinerary."
And just like that, our group chat exploded with screenshots of booked train tickets to Ashford, a weekend schedule, and a voice note from Sophia that ended with, "Don't be boring, and don't make me regret this."
We arrived in Ashford on Friday night. The city was cleaner, colder, and felt like it had Wi-Fi in the air.
Our Airbnb had a fireplace, three bedrooms, and a balcony that made me briefly consider pretending I was in a Netflix series.
Saturday was chaos in a bottle.
Hair dryers were screaming, makeup bags were open like surgical kits, and Ivy was giving instructions like she was directing a fashion show.
"You are not allowed to look like a guidance counselor at this party," she said, swiping highlighter across my cheekbone with terrifying precision.
"Yes, ma'am," I saluted, trying not to sneeze from the setting spray mist.
Ivy had gone full glam—a gold jumpsuit, sleek and glittering like it had been sewn onto her. Her hair was in loose, glossy waves that bounced when she turned her head dramatically (which was often), and her eyes were rimmed with just enough liner to say, I'm hot and I know it.
Sophia, on the other hand, looked like a rich villainess at a rooftop gala. She wore a blood-red silk slip dress that shimmered under the light, her black heels so high they were practically weapons. Her hair was pinned back in a sharp low bun, and her lips were painted the exact color of danger.
"I'm going to break necks tonight," she declared, turning in front of the mirror.
"You might also break ankles," I muttered.
"And hearts," she added with a wink.
Then… there was me.
I wore the black satin dress we picked. Long enough to be classy, tight enough to make walking feel like a sport.
It was off-shoulder, hugging my body like it had been stitched by someone who understood curves. The neckline dipped just low enough to make me blush, but high enough to still say I'm here to network, not to seduce.
My hair was softly curled and pinned on one side with a gold clip Ivy had insisted I wear. She also gave me smoky eye makeup and a nude lip gloss that made me look—dare I say—mysterious.
I didn't recognize myself.
"I look like someone who says, 'I'll have the usual' at five-star restaurants," I whispered.
Ivy grinned. "You look like a boss's temptation. And that is exactly the energy we're going for."
"I just don't want to trip on my own feet and flash someone's uncle."
Sophia handed me a clutch. "Then don't. Tonight, you're not just Lily. You're Lily-the-silent-threat."
I blinked. "I'm not even the loud threat?"
"You're the one they didn't see coming," she said with a smirk. "The most dangerous kind."
The last time I wore heels this high, I ended the night with blisters and the realization that I had no business pretending to be stylish.
But apparently, tonight was a "must slay or stay home" kind of situation—according to Sophia.
We arrived at the estate around 7:30 p.m., and the moment I stepped out of the car, I felt like I had walked into one of those influencer reels on Instagram—fairy lights, gold-rimmed champagne glasses, obnoxiously loud music, and way too many people in white linen who looked like they didn't even eat carbs.
The place was huge—an actual mansion with an open garden courtyard, a marble staircase, and some kind of infinity pool that was glowing. Yes, glowing.
"I'm not overdressed, right?" I asked, adjusting the neckline of my black satin dress for the fourth time.
"You're perfect," Sophia said, looping her arm through mine. "You look like you belong here."
"I feel like I should be delivering canapés," I muttered.
"Confidence, Lil," Ivy said, practically sparkling in her sequined jumpsuit. "You're hot. End of story."
I sighed. "Remind me why I agreed to this again?"
"Because I threatened to hack your Netflix account if you changed your mind," Sophia said sweetly.
Ah. Right.
"Stop fidgeting," Sophia whispered, elbowing me as we walked up the steps of the estate. "You look amazing."
"I look like a tightly wrapped gift nobody asked for," I muttered, tugging at the neckline again.
Ivy rolled her eyes beside me, twirling like she was auditioning for a red-carpet premiere. "Will you relax? This is Tasha's party, not a royal ball."
I arched a brow at her. "We are literally walking into a mansion, Ivy."
And not just any mansion—Tasha's boyfriend's family estate. According to Sophia, the guy was some rich Ashford socialite with connections deeper than my college student loan debt.
The entire place screamed "you don't belong here" in gold-plated accents and glass staircases.
There were fountains. Multiple fountains.
Why? What are you hydrating, the air?
We found Tasha near the entrance, surrounded by friends and giving directions like she was running a campaign.
"Oh my God! You guys came!" she shrieked, air-kissing all three of us like she hadn't ghosted half the people in that room last 2 years.
She was dressed like a fashion icon going to war—head to toe in silver.
"I'm so glad you made it. Ryder's inside getting everything ready. Drinks are to the left, pool's out back, and please don't let Sophia abandon me to hang with hot people again."
"No promises," Sophia muttered.
Tasha twirled dramatically and was gone.
And just like that, we were at the party.
Inside, the music thumped through the walls like it had something to prove, and the guests looked like they'd been plucked straight off a yacht commercial.
I tried not to panic. Or sweat. Or do anything that might make my dress pop open and take someone's eye out.
"I need air," I muttered, already detaching myself from the crowd.
Ivy was busy flirting with a guy who looked like he invented cologne. Sophia gave me a thumbs up from across the room, mouth already wrapped around a champagne flute.
And me? I just wanted a quiet spot. A corner. A bench. Maybe a mini panic attack in private.
I needed a break.
From the music. From the glitter. From the clinking glasses, curated laughter, and the guy in the corner talking about his third yacht like it was a personality trait.
The glamour was suffocating. Everyone here looked like they knew someone—or were someone. And I was just... Lily.
The air outside was cooler, quieter. I wandered off the main path, pretending to admire the fairy lights strung across the trees but really just trying to breathe without feeling like I needed a LinkedIn profile to exist.
Then I felt it—that weird tingle you get when you're being watched.
I looked up.
A man across the garden stood with one hand in his pocket, the other loosely holding a glass he clearly wasn't drinking. He wasn't talking to anyone. Wasn't smiling. Wasn't pretending to enjoy the party like the rest of us.
He was just watching.
And I don't mean party watching. I mean... me.
Our eyes met. He didn't look away.
I blinked and looked down at my dress, suddenly unsure of everything. Was something stuck to me? Did I spill something? Was this the part where someone rich decided I didn't fit the aesthetic?
I turned to leave—back toward the safety of Sophia, Ivy, and maybe a bottomless mimosa.
But I didn't make it far.
"Excuse me, miss."
A voice behind me. Low. Polite. Unsmiling.
I turned to find a man in a black suit, earpiece tucked behind his ear. Security. Or something fancier.
"My boss would like a word with you," he said, with all the warmth of a closed elevator.
Your... boss?
My stomach twisted. "Who's your boss?"
He nodded toward the man. Still standing there. Still watching.
Of course.
I blinked. "Okay, well… respectfully, I didn't come here to be 'worded' by anyone's boss."
The man didn't react. Just tilted his head. "He insists."
"And I insist on finishing my evening without being treated like a party favor."
He hesitated. I didn't.
"Tell your boss I said thank you for the invitation, but no," I added with a tight smile. "And next time, maybe try approaching women like they're people, not items on a room service menu."
I walked away.
Fast. Heels clicking like punctuation marks on marble. My pulse a little louder than it had been a minute ago.
I didn't know who that guy was, but he made my skin crawl. Like he wasn't just staring at me—he was calculating something. Like I'd unknowingly become a variable in someone else's game.
I needed air. A bathroom. A place without chandeliers.
That's when I saw the hallway. Quiet. Dark. Lined with paintings and soft light. The kind of place no one was watching.
And at the very end, a door slightly ajar.
Library & Study, the plaque read.
Perfect.
I slipped inside, let the door close gently behind me, and leaned against it.
It was still, cozy—dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and a faint scent of cologne and leather. The kind of room that belonged in a movie scene where secrets got spilled and rich people got murdered.
I exhaled, just starting to feel my shoulders drop—
And then I heard it.
A voice.
Male. Calm. Controlled. Sharp like ice.
"I don't care who his people are. If we wait, he takes the lead—and I don't hand leverage to men who don't know how to use it."
Something in me jolted.
That voice. It was... familiar.
Not loud. Not raised. But serious. Measured. Confident in the kind of way that usually came with a corner office and a really intense calendar app.
I couldn't place it. But I'd heard it before.
Somewhere.
A chill crawled up my spine, the air suddenly tighter. I inched back instinctively, heart in my throat—
And then I made the mistake of shifting my weight.
My heel caught the edge of a rug and tapped the wood beneath.
Sharp. Loud. Exposing.
The voice stopped.
Silence.
Footsteps moved closer—measured, unhurried, and way too close.
I was already turning to leave when I heard it again, this time much closer.
"Miss Morgan?"
And there it was.
Recognition. Full and immediate.
I turned.
And everything inside me froze.
Richard King.
Staring at me like I was the one out of place—like I'd wandered into a room meant for people with power and strategy, not department store heels and borrowed perfume.
Of course it was him.
Of course the voice belonged to him.
Because this night couldn't get more surreal if I tried.