Skylar Vance stepped out of the palatial bedroom and froze. The hallway stretched like a gilded canyon, flanked by cobalt satin wallpaper. Her gaze snagged on an impressionist oil painting depicting iridescent crustaceans. Is that… a Monet shrimp? She gaped at the brushstrokes until a butler materialized soundlessly, holding a silver tray.
"Mr. Sterling," he murmured with a slight bow. "The family is seated."
Skylar summoned every ounce of her acting chops, sculpting Silas's features into Arctic frost. "Lead the way."
The butler's eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly before he turned. Thank god for human GPS. Skylar trailed him through labyrinthine corridors, down a private elevator, and across a courtyard fragrant with night-blooming jasmine. The dining hall's double doors yawned open, revealing a scene ripped from a Rockefeller portrait: crystal chandeliers raining light over generations of Sterlings.
Laughter bubbled—until Skylar crossed the threshold. Conversations died mid-sentence, replaced by the clink of Limoges porcelain. A teenage girl clutching a rose-gold iPhone shrank back. "Evening, Silas."
Skylar gave a curt nod.
There. Lucas Sterling lounged at the far end, martini in hand. His eyes—the color of dirty dishwater—raked over her. "Running fashionably late again, cousin?" The acidic smile didn't reach his eyes. "Grandfather's tolerance isn't infinite."
Skylar's knuckles whitened. This is the bastard who blackballed me. Radiant Media's rejection letter flashed in her mind—the final nail in her dying acting career. She met his gaze, channeling Silas's signature glare: the one that could freeze lava. Lucas's smirk faltered; he looked away first, fingers tightening around his glass.
Score one for the body-snatcher.
She moved toward the head of the 20-foot mahogany table. Samuel Sterling sat enthroned like a silver-haired Caesar, observing her with reptilian stillness. Beside him, Margaret Sterling glowed in peach chiffon, her pearl choker catching the light.
"Grandfather. Grandmother." Skylar inclined her head. "Apologies for my tardiness."
Samuel's reply was a grunt. "Sit."
Margaret reached out, patting "Silas's" hand. "Did you rest well, darling? Flying red-eye from Frankfurt after closing the deal..." Her touch felt achingly familiar—the way Skylar's own grandmother would fret.
"Well enough, thank you."
"You mustn't overdo it," Margaret fretted. "All-nighters at your age—"
"I'll be mindful." God, I sound like a corporate chatbot.
Samuel snorted into his bone china teacup. "Heir apparent remembered how to form sentences today."
"Hush, Samuel!" Margaret swatted his arm. "He flew fifteen hours for your birthday brunch!"
Birthday? Oh, shit.
As Skylar slid into her seat, Richard Sterling—Silas's uncle and Lucas's father—leaned forward. "So, Silas. Did the Germans finally sign the waterfront deal?"
"They did."
Richard tsked. "Six months wasted! I warned you to pivot to Singapore's semiconductor project." He spread caviar on toast. "Now look—Veridian Chips just recalled their entire inventory. Toxic mold in the cleanrooms."
Cue the awkward silence.
Aunt Rosalind's laugh tinkled like broken crystal. "Oh, Richard. Veridian's CEO is currently sobbing into his sake. Charles Vanderbilt lost twenty million investing with them last quarter." She winked at Skylar. "I'd say Silas's patience paid off."
Richard's neck flushed puce. Before he could retort, Vincent Sterling—eldest uncle—slammed his palm on the table. "Enough shop talk. Eat."
Skylar seized her fork like a lifeline. Thank you, Uncle Vincent.
As platters circulated—truffle-infused quail eggs, lobster bisque shimmering with gold leaf—conversations resumed like cautious crickets. No one addressed "Silas" again. Skylar devoured seared foie gras, savoring the buttery decadence. Perks of inhabiting a male metabolism: zero guilt.
Yet beneath the opulence, unease coiled. She scanned the table: Vincent's grandchildren giggling over iPads, Rosalind debating art fraud with her husband, Richard whispering to Lucas. Everyone belonged. Everyone except the man occupying the heir's seat.
How does Silas breathe in this gilded cage?
Her phone vibrated beneath the table. A text from her own number:
Skylar: At Oceanfront. Bring wine. This foyer is larger than my apartment.
Skylar dabbed her lips with linen. "Grandfather, Grandmother—my apologies. An emergency requires my attention at headquarters."
Samuel's teacup hit its saucer with a crack. "On my birthday?"
Richard seized the moment, pouring Samuel more oolong. "The boy's drowning, Father. Running Sterling Group at his age? It's unsustainable." His smile oozed faux concern. "Perhaps… delegate more to experienced hands?"
Samuel's glacier eyes locked on Skylar. "Your uncle thinks you're incompetent. Are you?"
Game on, Sterling.
Skylar straightened, letting Silas's natural authority radiate. "The Berlin acquisition alone will yield 18% ROI by Q4. I believe my track record speaks for itself."
Richard's jaw clenched.
Margaret touched Samuel's arm. "Let him go, dear. Business emergencies—"
"Business!" Samuel exploded, hurling his napkin. "What about Vanessa Vanderbilts? I set up the introduction weeks ago! When will you give me great-grandchildren?"
Skylar blinked. Vanessa Vanderbilts? As in… railroad fortune Vanderbilts? "I'm… prioritizing the company's expansion—"
"Prioritize this!" Samuel roared, veins bulging at his temple. "You'll die alone in a penthouse surrounded by stock reports!"
Chaos erupted. Rosalind fanned Samuel; Vincent called for his nitro pills; Richard shot Skylar a triumphant smirk. Through the pandemonium, Margaret caught Skylar's eye and subtly flicked her wrist toward the door. Go.
As Skylar turned, Lucas piped up: "Grandfather, if Silas won't court Vanessa, I volunteer as tribute! Vanderbilt heiresses adore me."
Samuel's reply cracked like a whip: "Vanessa wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot polo mallet."
Skylar didn't suppress her grin as cobalt hallway swallowed her. Karma's a bitch, Lucas. The cool marble soothed her nerves. For a heartbeat, she almost pitied Silas Sterling—trapped between billion-dollar expectations and a family itching to devour him.
Almost.
Then she remembered the jet waiting on the tarmac and the penthouse stocked with Cristal. Right. Pity party canceled.