MILA
It takes me fifty minutes through rush-hour traffic to get to my father's house. His mansion sits on a tree-lined street, surrounded by iron gates and manicured hedges. I lean forward to catch a glimpse of it through the backseat window. The memory of my last visit here seeps into my mind. Father cheering at Mother's accident, my walk of shame out of his house.
I reach for the silver necklace around my neck. Mother's necklace. The one thing she gifted me right before her accident.
That day, I was so sure I would never return. Not after what he did. But here I am, about to enter the one place I swore I would never step foot in again.
The cab drops me off at the gate. I press the intercom button and wait for the familiar crackle.
"Name?" a voice breaks through the speaker.
"Mila Thorne."
A pause. Then the gate buzzes open.
I walk up the long driveway, past perfectly trimmed rose bushes and a fountain shaped like a swan. The house looms ahead, all white stone and tall windows, lit from within like something out of a magazine.
The front door opens before I can knock.
A woman in a black-and-white uniform stands there. The housekeeper. I have only met her once, the last time I came here.
"Ms. Thorne. Mr. Thorne is expecting you. This way, please."
She leads me through the grand foyer with marble floors and a chandelier that probably costs more than my yearly salary. Past a sitting room with cream-colored furniture. Down a hallway lined with family portraits.
I pause to stare at an old portrait fixed beside my stepsister's. Sophia and I, side by side. Our faces are both pulled into stiff smiles. We strike similar poses, wearing similar dresses, though our hairstyles are different. Hers is styled in a high ponytail, sleek and polished. Mine is split into two puffy buns, shorter and wilder.
Two daughters. One family. Except only one of us still belongs here.
I look away and follow the housekeeper.
I am barely halfway down the corridor when a sharp, familiar voice cuts through the silence.
"The prodigal daughter finally shows up. Isn't that lovely?"
I stop. Sophia.
I turn. She walks toward me, heels clicking with deliberate precision. She stops just close enough to make the air between us feel tight.
If this were a public dinner, we would be obligated to greet each other with air kisses. Appearances matter more than personal grudges in our world. Even though Father disowned me, only a few of his closest circle know. To everyone else, we are still one big happy family.
Sophia's cloyingly sweet perfume seeps into my nose. I cross my arms over my chest.
"Father wanted me here," I say evenly. "It's lovely to see you too, by the way."
She tilts her head, unimpressed, then shifts her weight onto one hip.
"Do not feel special. You of all people know Father well enough. He never goes back to his vomit."
Her gaze drags over me, irritation flashing as she takes in my dress. I wore one of my designs, a thin-strapped green velvet gown with a V-neck cut in front.
"Piece of advice," she adds, her lips curving faintly, "try not to disappoint him this time."
She walks off before I can respond.
My brows knit into a frown. I should not let her get to me. Sophia always knows exactly where to strike. I inhale and count to three.
But what was that about not disappointing Father?
The housekeeper clears her throat gently, breaking my train of thought. I look at her. She offers a small, apologetic smile. She clearly witnessed that unnecessary exchange.
"This way, Ms. Thorne," she says gently.
I nod and follow. "Do you have any idea what this dinner is for?" I ask as we move down the hallway.
The housekeeper shakes her head. "I'm afraid not. But the Humphreys were invited as well."
My frown deepens. The Humphreys. One of the most powerful families in the business world. Old money. Influence. Control. They have it all. Humphrey Industries owns half the luxury hotels in Seattle and has a real estate empire worth billions. Arthur and Gregory Humphrey have been business partners for over twenty years.
But why would Father invite them tonight? I push away every thought that points to the Humphreys' son. Whatever we had is history. He left me, and we have both moved on since then.
We stop outside a set of double doors.
"The dining room," the housekeeper says. She knocks twice, then opens the door.
Inside, the table is set for eight.
Father sits at the head, dressed in a charcoal suit with no tie. To his right sits Florencia, his wife, blonde and elegant in a cream silk blouse. To his left is an empty seat where Sophia was probably sitting before she ambushed me in the hallway. Beside Florencia sit Mr. Gregory Humphrey in a perfectly tailored navy suit, and Mrs. Catherine Humphrey in a powder blue dress dripping with diamonds. Opposite them, across the length of the table, sit their daughter Charlotte, in her mid-twenties, pretty in an unremarkable way, wearing too much blush. And beside Charlotte, someone I do not expect to see.
Eric Humphrey.
My chest tightens.
Eric. My ex-boyfriend from college. The man I dated for two years. He chose his family's approval over me, leaving me to sort through the pieces of my broken heart.
He looks up when I enter. His eyes widen slightly. Surprise. Or maybe guilt.
They all turn to look at me.
"Mila." Father's voice is cool, formal. "You're finally here."
I blink, my throat suddenly dry.
What is Father planning?
"Good evening," I manage, forcing a polite smile. "I apologize for the delay. Traffic was unforgiving."
I give a small nod to the table. "Mr. Humphrey. Mrs. Humphrey. Charlotte." My gaze flickers, briefly and involuntarily, to Eric. "Eric."
He does not speak. He just watches me, something unreadable in his eyes.
Gregory Humphrey stands, ever the gentleman. "Mila. It's been too long. You look well."
"Thank you, Mr. Humphrey. You as well."
Catherine gives me a tight smile that does not reach her eyes. Charlotte barely glances up from her phone.
I move to take a seat. Sophia sweeps back into the room and takes her place beside Father. The only empty seat left is at the far end of the table, directly opposite Father. Between me and the rest of them. Right beside Eric.
Damn it.
I take the seat, smoothing my dress as I sit. Eric shifts slightly, and I catch a whiff of his cologne. The same one he wore in college. Expensive. Familiar. Annoying.
Florencia does not even look my way. "You're late," she says, stabbing her fork into her steak.
"Traffic," I say simply.
Father picks up his wine glass. "Now that we're all here, shall we begin?"
A server appears immediately, placing a plate in front of me. Seared salmon with asparagus and some kind of reduction sauce I do not recognize.
I pick up my fork, but I am not hungry.
The clinking of cutlery fills the air, accompanied by polite conversation. Business. Investments. Market shifts. The kind of conversations that sound casual but carry weight beneath every word.
Mr. Humphrey laughs at something Father says. Catherine adds a comment about an upcoming gala. Florencia contributes just enough to maintain her image of quiet refinement.
Sophia occasionally glances at me, her smirk subtle but present. And Eric is quiet. But I feel it. His eyes on me again and again.
I try to ignore it, focusing on my plate, on keeping my expression neutral, on playing my part. At one point, I look up and catch him staring. He does not look away immediately. I give a small, polite smile.
He returns it, faintly.
My stomach tightens. Why is he here? Why now?
I reach for my glass of water, grounding myself.
"So, Mila," Gregory Humphrey says, his tone overly jovial, "Arthur tells us you've been working in fashion. How is that going?"
"It's going well, thank you."
"She works at L'Etoile Noir," Sophia cuts in, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "A boutique in Brooklyn."
The way she says "boutique" makes it sound like I am selling clothes out of a garage.
"It's in Manhattan, actually," I correct.
"Of course," Sophia says with a smile that does not reach her eyes.
Eric clears his throat. "I think it's great, Mila. You always had an eye for design."
I glance at him. He is looking at me with something that might be sincerity. Or pity. I cannot tell.
"Thank you," I say carefully.
Catherine Humphrey dabs at her mouth with a napkin. "It's wonderful that young women today have such interesting hobbies."
Hobbies.
I grip my fork a little tighter.
"It's actually my career, Mrs. Humphrey."
"Of course, dear." She smiles indulgently, as if I have said something charmingly naive.
The conversation shifts to business talk, stock portfolios, and the new hotel opening in Miami.
I push salmon around my plate and try to figure out why I am here.
Eric keeps stealing glances at me. I feel each one like a weight. At one point, he leans slightly closer. "You look beautiful tonight."
I do not look at him. "Thank you."
"I have thought about reaching out. Over the years."
"But you didn't."
"No. I didn't."
Silence stretches between us.
"How have you been?" he asks quietly.
"Busy."
"Right. Of course."
I take a sip of water. The ice clinks against the glass.
Father is watching us. I can feel it.
Finally, after dessert is served, a chocolate torte I do not touch, Father taps his knife against his wine glass.
The table goes quiet.
"I'd like to make an announcement," he says, standing.
My stomach drops.
Gregory Humphrey smiles. Catherine looks pleased. Sophia smirks.
And Eric will not meet my eyes.
"As many of you know," Father continues, "the Thorne and Humphrey families have enjoyed a long and fruitful partnership. Tonight, I am pleased to announce that partnership will become even stronger."
No.
"Mila and Eric will be married."
The room tilts.
"The engagement will be announced next week. The wedding will take place in three months."
I cannot breathe.
Gregory stands, raising his glass. "To family. To partnership. To the future."
Everyone raises their glasses.
Except me.
I stare at Father.
"What?" The word slips out before I can stop it.