It wasn't the sunlight streaming through the curtains, or the birds chirping outside, or the fact that my bed was objectively too comfortable for the level of dread sitting in my chest.
It was the knowledge that today was the day of the gala.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the molding and wondering—briefly, sincerely—if it was socially acceptable to fake amnesia again.
"I could pretend I don't remember who anyone is," I whispered to myself. "That worked last time."
Unfortunately, I was still Violet Hawthorne, daughter of the most image-obsessed man alive, and amnesia would probably be treated as a public relations inconvenience rather than a medical emergency.
I sighed and rolled onto my side.
"Okay," I muttered. "Let's go over this again. I do not want to see Marian Stark."
Not because of my personal feelings.
But because she has something against me.
That much was clear.
People did not stare like that unless they remembered something. They did not say your name like it carried weight unless there was history behind it. And they absolutely did not text you cryptic messages unless they were either planning revenge or trying to drag you into something messy.
And I, Violet Hawthorne, had zero interest in either.
I sat up abruptly.
"Which means," I said aloud, "I need a plan."
I swung my legs out of bed and paced the room, mentally mapping out the gala venue based on what Mack had briefly mentioned.
Large ballroom.
Multiple entrances.
VIP section.
Press area.
Side corridors for staff and executives.
Excellent.
I grabbed a pen and paper and began sketching a crude diagram.
"Okay," I murmured, drawing boxes. "If Marian Stark enters through the main doors, I take the side entrance. If she's already inside, I stay glued to Mack. If she approaches—"
I paused.
What would I do if she approached?
My brain supplied an image of Marian stepping close, eyes sharp, voice calm, asking something pointed like 'Do you remember me?'
My soul tried to leave my body again.
"No," I said firmly, crossing that mental image out. "If she approaches, I excuse myself. Bathroom. Phone call. Sudden illness. Sudden death. Whatever works."
Satisfied with this extremely solid plan, I folded the paper and tucked it into my nightstand like a security blanket.
Then there was a knock at the door.
"Miss Violet?" a maid called softly. "The stylist has arrived."
I groaned.
Of course she had.
The next three hours were a blur of fabric, makeup brushes, hairpins, and increasingly frantic internal monologues.
The stylist hummed cheerfully while curling my hair, utterly unaware that she was preparing me for what felt like a social execution.
"You look a bit pale," she noted, tilting my chin up gently. "Are you feeling alright?"
"No, I am about to pass out," I replied honestly.
She laughed, assuming it was a joke.
I did not correct her.
By the time she finished, I was dressed, styled, and polished into something unrecognizable. The gown hugged me perfectly, elegant and understated but unmistakably expensive. Jewelry glittered subtly at my throat and wrists.
I stared at my reflection.
I looked… composed.
Which was unfortunate, because inside, I was absolutely not.
"You'll do wonderfully," the stylist said warmly. "Just smile and stay close to your family."
Stay close to my family.
Yes. That was part of the plan.
I nodded and watched her leave, then immediately collapsed onto the edge of the bed.
"Okay," I whispered. "Youu're not here to make speeches—and you're not here to interact with rival CEOs."
A pause.
"…Unless Father makes me."
The drive to the venue was quiet.
Mack sat beside me in the back seat, scrolling through emails on his phone, jaw tense. Father sat across from us, posture immaculate, expression unreadable.
No one spoke.
I tried not to think about Marian.
This did not work.
As soon as the car slowed and the lights of the venue came into view—cameras flashing, guests arriving, the building glowing like something out of a movie—I felt my stomach drop.
"This is it," I murmured under my breath.
Mack glanced at me. "You alright?"
"Yes," I lied. "Perfectly fine. Just… mentally preparing to disassociate."
He frowned. "You don't need to worry. Just stay with me."
I nodded eagerly.
Yes. Stay with Mack.
Stay with Mack forever.
Become one with Mack.
Never leave Mack's side.
The car stopped.
The door opened.
And the noise hit us all at once.
Voices.
Laughter.
Camera shutters.
Music.
We stepped out, and immediately the Hawthorne name did its work. Heads turned. Conversations paused. Cameras angled toward us.
Father led the way, Mack beside him.
I followed, keeping my head down, eyes scanning the room for one thing and one thing only:
Marian Stark.
I didn't see her immediately.
Relief flooded me.
Maybe she wasn't here yet. Maybe she'd be late. Maybe she'd skip the event entirely.
Hope, fragile and foolish, fluttered in my chest.
I clung to it desperately.
We moved through the ballroom, greeting people, exchanging polite smiles. Father spoke with investors. Mack fielded questions about the company's performance.
I nodded at the right moments, said the right things, did my absolute best to blend into the background.
This was working.
I was invisible.
I was safe.
And then—
"Violet."
My blood ran cold.
I hadn't even turned yet. I didn't need to. I knew that voice.
Calm. Controlled. Familiar in a way that made my skin prickle.
Slowly—so slowly—I turned around.
And there she was.
Marian Stark stood a few steps away, dressed in a sleek black gown that somehow managed to be both simple and devastating. Her hair was pulled back, revealing sharp features and eyes that locked onto mine with immediate focus.
The noise of the ballroom faded.
It was just us.
"Oh," I said stupidly.
Marian's lips curved slightly. Not a smile. Something else.
"You look well," she said.
I blinked. "Thank you."
Why was my voice doing that? Why did it sound… small?
She tilted her head. "You didn't reply to my messages."
Ah.
There it was.
The accusation.
"I've been… busy," I said carefully.
"With work?" she asked.
"Yes," I said quickly. "Very busy. Extremely busy. Busy enough to not… communicate."
Her gaze sharpened, as if she were trying to read something behind my words.
"I see," she said quietly.
I swallowed.
This was bad. This was going badly. This was exactly what I'd been trying to avoid.
"I should—" I gestured vaguely behind me. "I'm supposed to be with my family."
Marian didn't move to stop me.
She just watched.
"Of course," she said. "We'll speak later."
The words were gentle.
The implication was not.
I nodded stiffly and retreated, heart hammering.
I found Mack and clung to him like a lifeline.
"That was her," I hissed.
Mack frowned. "Marian?"
"She talked to me."
He blinked. "She talked to you?"
"Yes. With words. Directed at me. Specifically."
Mack studied me. "What did she say?"
"That I look well."
He relaxed slightly. "That's… normal."
"No," I said darkly. "That's a prelude."
"To what?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "But I don't like it."
Before he could respond, Father approached.
"The announcement will begin shortly," he said. "Both of you will stand with me."
My heart plummeted.
"Both?" I echoed.
"Yes."
This was it.
The point of no return.
As we moved toward the stage, I felt Marian's presence again—not physically close, but aware. Watching.
I kept my eyes forward, posture perfect, smile polite.
Inside, my mind screamed.
She has something against me.
She definitely remembers something.
And now I'm standing here like an idiot under a spotlight.
When the announcement concluded and applause filled the room, Father leaned toward me slightly.
"Well done," he murmured. "You did well."
That was… praise.
I barely registered it.
Because across the room, Marian Stark met my gaze again.