“Don’t be so dramatic,” Momma said.
“So, yes,” I deadpanned.
Daddy sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It’s just lunch, Sloane. Not a proposal. You’ve known the Hartsfields since you were a child.”
I ignored that. “And who exactly am I meant to be entertaining over lobster bisque? Last time I checked, Lilly didn’t have a brother.”
Momma hesitated, then gave me that overly casual blink that always preceded manipulation. “Their nephew. Recently moved down from D.C. to take over the coastal portfolio. Tall, handsome, very well-educated. He just bought a place on the Battery.”
“Of course, he did,” I muttered.
“He’s serious,” Daddy added. “Knows how to carry himself. Solid reputation. No scandals.”
“How boring.”
“Sloane,” Momma said in a tone laced with too much meaning, “this isn’t about you finding fireworks. It’s about stability. About someone who understands the world you live in.”
My stomach twisted—just a little. Not because of the nephew or the Hartsfields or even the calculated charm offensive they’d clearly coordinated. But because even if they were offering meeverything I’d ever been raised to want—money, reputation, pedigree—I couldn’t stop thinking about the man who hadn’t given me his name.
The one who didn’t need a résumé.
The one who, even without a mask, still managed to feel like the most dangerous secret in the room.
“I’ll think about it,” I said finally.
Momma beamed like that meant yes.
But it didn’t.
Because the only thing I was thinking about was how fate kept playing this game. And how I couldn’t stop playing back.
Upstairs, the air was cooler. Quieter. The kind of hush that felt deliberate, like the walls themselves knew not to intrude.
I peeled off my clothes and stepped into the marble bathroom, twisting the gold tap until the tub began to fill with steaming water and imported lavender salts. It was absurd, really—this ritual of bathing like royalty, soaking in oil blends that cost more than rent in most zip codes. But it was familiar. And right now, familiar was the only thing I could handle without unraveling.
I sank into the water slowly, my muscles sighing as the heat hit them. The bath always worked like a sedative—an anchor for a girl raised to appear unshaken, even when she was splintering inside.
My fingers found the edge of the brass tray I’d pulled across the tub, the leather-bound journal resting atop it. It was one of the good ones—French paper, soft like cream, lined with ink I’d once had custom-mixed in Milan. I uncapped the pen and wrote the date with practiced flourish, then paused.
What now?
I stared at the blank space beneath it like it might give me the answer.
Eventually, I wrote:
If I married a man like they want me to, I’d know which fork to use for every course and never raise my voice above a cocktail whisper. I'd be photographed exactly twice a year—once at a fundraiser and once on a yacht—and I’d always laugh just slightly too late so no one thought I was trying too hard.
I paused again, letting the thought settle. Then:
We’d live in a waterfront house designed by someone with a hyphenated last name. I’d host luncheons for causes I didn’t care about, take Xanax like vitamins, and smile across the table at a man who looked good in linen and kissed like he had somewhere better to be.
I stopped writing. Because I wasn’t sure if I hated the idea or if I was just afraid I didn’t.
Some girls fall in love first. Some sign the paperwork and hope the feelings follow.
That’s what I wrote next. Small. Quiet. Almost like a confession.
I’d read about it—arranged marriages that started with strategy, alliances, family ties. Girls who barely knew the names of the men they were promised to. And somehow, many of them grew to love each other. Maybe not with the heat of fairy tales, but with something steadier. A companionship built on mutual gain. Respect. Routine.
