An heiress plots to sabotage her engagement to her rebellious first love.
𓂃 𓈒♡
Desiree Hart has spent her life being molded into the perfect heir, burying her dreams to meet her mother's relentless expectations. Wallace Aldridge, the rebellious s...
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My pulse thudded in my throat as the car slowed before the mansion gates. Black iron scrollwork arched overhead, its shadow tracing dark patterns onto the gravel drive.
Through the tinted window, I caught glimpses of white stone pillars and lawns so perfectly trimmed they looked artificial. No breeze. No birds. Just a hush thick enough that it made me sit up straighter.
I folded my hands in my lap, fingers twitching but I laced them tighter, trapping the nervous energy against my ribs.
During the drive, Mother had only said we were dining with the Aldridges. A name dripping with old money and politics.
She didn't say why. She didn't need to.
Mother didn't do casual dinners, especially not with people like them. If we were here, it meant something. And knowing her, that something likely involved me.
What if this was it? The moment I'd have to choose between what I wanted and what she expected?
That thought made my skin prickle. I wanted to run. But refusing her always felt like losing the only love I'd ever known.
Please... let me be wrong.
The car door clicked open. Mother stepped out first, her heels tapping clean notes into the gravel. Not a hint of hesitation or uncertainty.
She wore a navy suit, sharp at the shoulders and cinched at the waist. Her updo was flawless, not a strand out of place. Diamond earrings caught the last rays of the sun, flashing like small, cold stars.
Her face was calm. But I knew that gleam in her eyes and the smile that hovered just beneath the surface. It was the look she wore when something was being set in motion.
I followed her lead, back straightening instinctively. A habit ingrained from years of training under Mother's watchful eye.
Our heels clicked in rhythm. Mine, always a half-beat behind.
Everything you do reflects back on us, Desiree.
The memory of her words tightened around my chest like a corset.
So, I slipped into the mask she'd taught me to wear. The smile that gave nothing away. The one that promised everything was fine.
A man in a dark suit bowed as we approached and opened the double doors.
The scent of lemon polish curled into the air-conditioned foyer, mingling with the faint musk of old wood. Gleaming floors stretched out like mirrors, reflecting the chandelier's gold in trembling pools. Gold-paneled walls were lined with portraits and photographs.
One showed Walter Aldridge mid-speech at a podium, his face frozen in that faked sincerity politicians wore like cheap cologne. I remembered him vaguely from a school event, something about youth leadership potential. Whatever that meant.
