Clementine, a social media manager with fiery red hair and emerald green eyes, was a contradiction. Shy in person, her mind buzzed with fascinating trivia just waiting for the right listener.
Sebastian Montgomery as the tabloids dubbed him, was an...
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Clementine had always known that she didn't belong in Sebastian Montgomery's world.
Not in the way his daughters did, born into wealth and privilege. Not in the way his brother did, reckless yet untouchable. Not in the way his parents did, with their perfectly controlled presence, their sharp gazes that dissected a person before they even spoke.
She had always been on the outside—watching, treading carefully, trying not to step where she shouldn't. And yet, the moment her phone lit up with an unfamiliar number, a cold wave of unease swept through her.
Margaret Montgomery: Lunch. The Rosewood. 12 PM. Be on time.
No greeting. No request. Just an order.
Her stomach twisted. She hadn't given Sebastian's mother her number—so how had she gotten it? She had a sinking feeling that Margaret Montgomery wasn't the kind of woman who asked for things. She simply took.
Clementine hesitated before typing out a response.
I have work.
A minute passed. Then another.
Margaret Montgomery: I already spoke to your HOD. You're excused. 12 PM.
Her throat tightened. Clementine had no choice.
That morning, as she finished getting ready, a thought struck her.
She didn't know much about Margaret Montgomery, aside from what she had observed—poised, elegant, and terrifyingly perceptive. And yet, there was something familiar about the way she carried herself, like she expected the world to yield to her.
Clementine hesitated, then pulled up a Google search.
Margaret Montgomery, née Pembroke.
Her breath caught. Pembroke—she recognized that name.
Margaret Montgomery came from a long line of aristocrats. British royalty, in a sense, though the official titles had faded generations ago. Still, the wealth, the connections, the influence—it was all intact.
Clementine scrolled further.
Not just wealth. Power.
Her mouth felt dry.
She had been nervous before, but now? She was walking into a battlefield armed with nothing but a polite smile.
.....
The Rosewood was the kind of place that made Clementine hesitate at the entrance, her fingers tightening around the strap of her purse as she stepped inside.
The air smelled like old money—subtle, expensive, refined. It wasn't just the delicate floral arrangements on every table or the glistening chandeliers that refracted light like cut diamonds. It was the silence. Not the absence of noise, but the curated, polite hush of a world where people spoke in low voices and never, ever raised them.
