Mother beams. Lila kicks me gently under the table:your move.
I turn to Bennett and smile the way one smiles at a shark. “Why are you agreeing to this?”
His brows knit. “Pardon?”
“What’s in it for you?”
He blinks, recovers. “Our families have interests to align. And—” he inclines his head “—you are lovely.”
“You don’t know me.”
“Notyet,” he says. I think he’s trying to flirt.
“Your father wants the Preston name connected to his business,” Lila murmurs.
Bennett laughs, swatting it away. “We all win.”
Uncle Julian’s tone could cut glass. “We’ll see.”
Mother sets down her napkin. “This is not a firing squad. It’s brunch. No one is forcing you into marriage. We’re simply presenting a possibility. You have two weeks. Why not choose sensibly?”
“Because I’m not a merger.” Anger burns off the shock. “I have a career I love. I’m not signing up for this nonsense.”
Mother’s smile thins. “A life that is precarious. Your salary will not support the standard you’re accustomed to. And without the trust?—”
“Market rate is exactly on par for her role and experience as social media manager,” Uncle Julian cuts in, silk over steel. “More than, in fact.”
“Market isn’t our standard,” Mother dismisses haughtily.
“The world doesn’t bill by your standard, Serena.”
The reality stings. A rent-hike notice slid under my door a few weeks ago. With so many new players moving into the building, they can jack it up as high as they want, and on my salary, I can’t keep up. When the lease renews, I’m out. And it isn’t just rent. It’s the Harlem studio—the scholarship program I’ve been sketching in my planner’s margins. Classes for girls who’d never touch a barre otherwise. No trust, no free dance classes for underprivileged kids.
Yeah, technically, I’ll never starve—Mother would rather die than let a Preston work retail—but that’s not freedom, that’s golden handcuffs. The trust was supposed to be mine. Mine-mine. My terms. A clean exit ramp from this table. And they’re telling me that exit disappears in fourteen days unless I let them announce my engagement.
I glance at Lila, who’s smirking into her water glass. At Uncle Julian’s clenched jaw. My father’s regret. Mother’s smugness. Bennett’s smile—all of them waiting.
I lift my chin, even as my hands shake in my lap. “Mother, I’ll read the clause. I’ll review it with counsel. But let’s be clear—if afiancé is indeed required on a deadline, I’ll choose him myself.” I glance at Bennett. “No offense.”
Silence settles, heavy as snowfall.
Uncle Julian leans back, the edge of a grin tugging. “Now that’s a Preston spine if I’ve ever seen one.”
“Don’t be rash, dear,” Mother says softly, which is rich.
When I meet Dad’s gaze, he nods once:I’ll back you. Uncle Julian rises. “We can loop in my counsel too. I’d like to understand enforcement language.”
Mother’s composure cracks, then smooths. “Of course. Whatever makes everyone comfortable.” For a second, there’s a flicker behind her eyes—disappointment, maybe, or worry I can’t quite name. Then it’s gone, locked behind the same smile that’s ruled every family photo since I was born.
Bennett stands, pivot already loaded. “Very well. My assistant will reach out. Perhaps a simple dinner to start?”
“No.” I smile, sharp enough to cut. “We’ll start with nothing. No offense, Bennett, you’re not my type.”
His jaw ticks. Mother doesn’t move. “Two weeks to get engaged. Any better ideas?”
I meet her stare and tip my chin. “We’ll see.”
3
