In the bathroom, I turned the water on hot and stepped under the stream, letting it scald the guilt and grief off me—but it clung too deep.
My head thudded against the cool marble tile. Over and over, every memory assaulted me: Sin’s sleepy laugh in the mornings, the way he’d tug me back into bed just to steal five more minutes. How he kissed like we were the only two people in the world. The look in his eyes when I told him I was coming—and the look that would be there when he saw me tonight withher.
I stayed under the water until my skin flushed red, and my chest quieted enough for me to breathe again. And I donned my armor, repaired the walls around my heart, making them impenetrable.
My heart belonged to one man. I refused to ever give it to another. Sin saw me for who I truly was beneath my cold bitter exterior. I owed it to him to honor everything we had, even if after tonight he thought I’d betrayed him.
Eventually, I dressed. It took an eternity to put my suit on. Just like the puppet I was, I wore the navy one. I was nothingif not the image they created. The embodiment of my Astor heritage.
He was already waiting by the car, a sleek black Bentley polished to a mirror shine. I could see myself in the surface of the door, but I didn’t recognize the man staring back.
My father’s gaze slid over me with clinical precision. His jaw ticked once. “Good. You look appropriate.”
No warmth. No approval. Just an assessment. Like a weapon he’d finally sharpened.
I slid into the back seat without a word, and our driver closed the door behind us with the soft finality of a coffin lid.
My father’s tuxedo, blacker than sin, and sharp enough to cut glass, would have looked out of place anywhere else. But here, in Brookhaven Ridge, among silk-draped privilege and generational wealth, he fit perfectly. As if the place had been carved from his soul.
The car pulled away from the estate and I watched the world outside blur—rows of perfectly manicured hedges and discreet iron gates giving way to the sprawl of the country club’s golf course. Landscaped like Eden, maintained like a crime scene. Every blade of grass, a lie.
His phone rang before he could fixate on me, and he answered it with a clipped “Astor,”—already halfway into another power play. His voice dropped into that low, persuasive register he used when sealing billion-dollar deals or threatening someone’s livelihood. As he barked down the line, I stared out the window, wishing I could unbuckle the mask tightening around my face.
I didn’t even know what this event was until two hours ago. And now here I was. On parade.
The only silver lining was that Sin wasn’t working tonight. I’d checked the roster. He was off for another two days. I wouldn’thave to see his face. Wouldn’t have to watch everything I’d broken in him reflect in his eyes.
I could find the words later. I just had to survive this first.
Brookhaven Ridge Country Club rose in front of us like a temple—built not for worship, but for preservation. Of bloodlines. Of wealth. Of image.
Gold-accented limestone, sweeping glass windows, and doors held open by staff in white gloves. Inside, light refracted off crystal chandeliers and polished silver, casting long, glittering shadows over high-society smiles and champagne flutes.
It reeked of power and old money masked as charm.
A valet opened my father’s door. I followed behind him, feeling more like a prop than a son. Conversations quieted just long enough for our presence to be acknowledged, then resumed with new fervor. Heads turned subtly. Phones lifted under the pretense of candid photos. The event wasn’t about us, not officially. But everyone was here for this.
The Astor-Vanderbilt deal. Even if no one would ever admit it aloud.
As Father disappeared into a conversation with a hedge fund titan and his second wife—talking like gods among insects—I peeled off, drowning in suffocating laughter and false niceties.
I made for the garden, desperate for air to fill my lungs. And then I saw her through the waning crowd—Rosalie Vanderbilt.
She stood near a grand piano just inside the doors that opened out to the rose gardens, mid-conversation with a woman in a sapphire sheath dress. She looked like every inch of her had been designed for a Vogue cover—gray eyes sharp and unreadable, blonde waves soft against her skin, posture elegant without being delicate.
She was beautiful. Devastatingly so—even I could appreciate that. I just hoped she was trapped in this world, too, like me.
Her eyes found mine across the room, assessing with surgical precision. No surprise. Just tired recognition and resigned acceptance like she’d been bracing for this meeting her entire life. The truth was, she’d been groomed for this day since the moment she was born.
I crossed the floor toward her, and like some unspoken choreography, she met me halfway. Cameras tilted. Whispers rose like smoke behind hands and crystal glasses.
She offered her hand, head tilted in mock politeness. “Theodore Astor. We finally meet.”
I took her hand and offered her the same mask I’d been wearing since I could walk. “Miss Vanderbilt. You look lovely tonight.”
She gave me a look—somewhere between dry amusement and thinly veiled disdain. “Are we really doing titles? Do you want me to curtsey too?”
I smirked without feeling it. “Just trying to make the headlines clean.”
