The DuPont estate was quieter than usual.
Too quiet.
Caroline stormed through the marble-floored foyer like a woman possessed. The heels of her Louboutins clicked with the precision of war drums. A maid tried to greet her; Caroline waved her off like an errant fly. She was still fuming—her nostrils flared, her jaw tight, her hands itching to throttle someone.
"Lucien freaking Moreau," she hissed under her breath as she marched up the staircase. "With his stupid Aston Martin and his glacier eyes and his I-own-the-world attitude."
The second her bedroom door shut behind her, Caroline yanked at the zipper of her dress like it personally betrayed her. "I cannot believe I rear-ended him of all people! Of course he had to be smug. Of course he had to have the entire NYPD wrapped around his stupid French fingers."
She kicked off her heels—one landed on the chaise lounge, the other ricocheted off a vintage mirror. Her dress clung stubbornly to her shoulders as she flailed in front of her vanity, muttering a string of colorful insults.
A soft knock interrupted her tantrum.
She froze.
Then—"What?!"
A meek voice from outside. "Miss Caroline? Your father wishes to see you in his study."
Of course he does.
With a dramatic huff worthy of a soap opera finale, Caroline ripped the dress halfway down and flung a silk robe over herself. She didn't bother fixing her hair—it looked like the aftermath of an emotional hurricane, and she was one.
Storming toward the east wing, she mentally prepared for a lecture, a scolding, maybe even another snide remark about her public image. But what she didn't expect was the very first thing Charles DuPont said when she walked into his study.
"I've arranged another date for you."
Caroline blinked.
Paused.
Stared at him like he'd grown antlers.
"No," she said flatly.
Charles leaned back in his high-backed leather chair, eyes cold and unimpressed. "It's already scheduled. Saturday. Seven. He's the son of an old friend from Monaco. No drama this time. No scenes. And certainly no fleeing the country."
She snorted. "You make it sound like I faked my own death to escape the last one."
"You might as well have," he replied crisply. "And I'm done with the games, Caroline. If you don't attend this date—and I mean attend it properly, as a DuPont—you'll lose access to your bank accounts, your cards, your car collection... everything."
Caroline's mouth dropped open. "You wouldn't dare."
"I absolutely would."
Her voice rose an octave. "You'd rip away everything because I won't parade myself in front of another insufferable heir with a superiority complex and a receding hairline?!"
He didn't even blink.
"Oh my god," she groaned, spinning around in outrage. "You treat me like some auction item! What next, huh? Open bidding at brunch?"
Charles didn't answer.
"I just got back from the most humiliating encounter of my life," she added, voice shaking with rage. "I ran into Lucifer reincarnated in designer cologne—he humiliated me, the police watched, and I had to pay for his car!"
"You rear-ended him."
"Semantics!" she snapped.
Without another word, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the study, silk robe flying behind her like a cape of fury.
Back in her room, she threw herself onto her bed and screamed into a satin pillow. Then she grabbed her phone, ready to dial her one emotional lifeline—
But before she could hit call, the screen lit up.
Incoming call: Stassi
She answered immediately. "Stassi, I swear to God, my father is trying to pimp me out again—"
"Good evening to you too," Anastasia said dryly. "What did he do now?"
"He wants me to go on another blind date! Says I'll be stripped of my funds if I don't go."
"Well... at least you'll be stripped of something," Anastasia muttered.
"Not helping!"
"Caroline," Anastasia sighed, "just go. Smile. Don't stab anyone with a fork. You're running out of trust fund lifelines, babe. One day they'll sell you to a sheikh and you won't even notice until the camel shows up."
Caroline flopped back dramatically. "Why is everyone in my life the worst?"
"Because you attract chaos like it's Chanel."
She groaned. "Honestly, I'd rather kiss Lucien Moreau's bumper again than go on another date with some diplomatic disaster in loafers."
There was a pause.
Then Anastasia said, "Speaking of disasters... Dante wants a public wedding."
Caroline bolted upright. "A what now?!"
"A wedding. In public. With guests. And cameras."
" Aren't you married already?!"
"I'm owned, Caroline. My company? Dante bought it through the contract. Technically, he owns me now."
"Oh my god. You're a corporate bride."
"And you're next if you keep rejecting dates."
They both went silent for a beat.
Then Anastasia added, "He wants to announce it at the upcoming gala. I don't even have a dress."
"Stassi—"
"I'm not done ranting," she cut in. "You think you have problems? I'm about to become Mrs. Montgomery without even wanting to . My mother hasn't spoken to me in weeks."
Caroline blinked. "You didn't kill him yet?"
"I'm considering arsenic."
They both laughed—though Caroline's quickly turned to a sigh.
"I don't want another stranger," she murmured. "I want to choose who I fall for. Even if it's a disaster. Even if it's... a sarcastic French lawyer with way too much arrogance."
"Wait. What?"
"Nothing," she said quickly. "Forget it."
---
Elsewhere, Across the City...
The Laurent estate was cloaked in shadows.
Genevieve Laurent sat by her window, a half-full wine glass in hand. Her robe hung loose around her shoulders, the silk catching the moonlight. In her other hand, she clutched a photograph—a man with a charming smile, crinkled eyes, and a love that once filled the halls of this house.
Her husband.
Gone now.
Taken in an explosion that left more questions than answers.
She closed her eyes.
Breathed in slowly.
Her thumb brushed across the corner of the photo as if he'd speak again. As if he'd assure her everything would be alright.
The wine in her glass swirled.
Outside, the wind rustled the hedges.
But inside, Genevieve was still. Frozen. A statue in grief.
The world might believe she'd moved on.
But in the quiet of her room, the truth lingered like the taste of old wine.
She was alone.
And something was coming.
Something she has an inkling might've killed her husband.