Charlotte's POV
The Beverly Hills Country Club smelled of old money and older secrets—leather, cigars, and the particular perfume of privilege that clung to everything like morning fog. I sat across from Thomas at our usual table, the one overlooking the eighteenth hole, where deals worth millions were sealed with handshakes and lies dressed up as pleasantries.
My phone had been buzzing incessantly for the past hour. Fifteen missed calls from Mother's publicist, eight from the family's crisis management team, and dozens of text messages I couldn't bring myself to read. The latest gossip blogs were having a field day, and everyone wanted to know how the Morgan family planned to "handle the situation."
Thomas cut his steak with surgical precision, each movement calculated and controlled. Everything about him was like that—measured, appropriate, safe. The kind of man Mother had been grooming me to marry since I was old enough to understand what marriage meant in our world. Not love. Business.
"You look tired, darling," he said without looking up from his plate. "Rough night?"
The casualness of his tone didn't fool me. He'd seen the photos. Of course, he had—everyone in our circle would have seen them by now, dissected them over their morning coffee like vultures picking at roadkill.
"I'm fine." I pushed the Caesar salad around my plate, my appetite nonexistent. The diamond bracelet on my wrist caught the light—another family heirloom, another chain linking me to expectations I'd never chosen.
"Are you?" Thomas finally looked up, his pale blue eyes studying my face with the same detached interest he might show a financial report. "Because the internet seems to suggest otherwise."
Heat crept up my neck. "Thomas, I—"
"No need to explain." He reached across the table, covering my hand with his. His touch was cool, impersonal. "We all have moments of... poor judgment. The important thing is that we learn from them."
His condescension was like ice water down my spine. This was Thomas's idea of forgiveness—magnanimous and suffocating all at once.
"Your mother and I have been discussing the announcement," he continued, his thumb stroking my knuckles in a way that made my skin crawl. "Given the circumstances, we think it's best to move forward quickly. A fall wedding would be ideal—September, perhaps. Before the election cycle heats up."
My fork clattered against the plate. "What announcement?"
Thomas smiled, the patient expression he wore when explaining basic concepts to people he considered intellectually inferior. "Our engagement, Charlotte. Surely your mother mentioned it?"
The world tilted. Around us, the quiet conversations of the club's elite continued—talk of stock portfolios and charity boards and who was vacationing in the Hamptons this summer. Normal life for normal people in our abnormal world.
"I haven't agreed to marry you." The words came out steadier than I felt.
"Haven't you?" His grip on my hand tightened slightly. "Your family's company needs the Beaufort backing to survive the current market volatility. With your family name and my backing, it's a win-win. Power couples don't happen by accident, darling."
The word 'arrangement' hung between us, unspoken but deafening.
"And what about what I want?"
Thomas's laugh was soft and utterly without warmth. "What you want, darling, is stability. Security. A place in society that matches your breeding." His eyes hardened. "What you don't want is to end up like some cautionary tale, throwing away everything for a pretty face and empty promises."
The reference to Mateo was unmistakable. I jerked my hand back.
I could hear my mother's voice in my head, clipped and cold: "Grace under pressure, Charlotte. Morgans don't make scenes." But grace felt like a noose right now, tightening with every word Thomas spoke.
"You don't know anything about him."
"I know enough." Thomas leaned back in his chair, supremely confident. "I know he's an artist—and not a successful one, judging by where he lives. I know he has no family connections, no education worth mentioning, no prospects beyond whatever he can sell on street corners." His smile turned razor-sharp. "I also know that men like him see women like you as opportunities, not partners."
"You're wrong."
"Am I?" Thomas pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and showed me a new article. The headline made my blood freeze: Local Artist's Past Revealed: Multiple Arrests, Financial Troubles, Restraining Order Filed by Ex.
Below was a photo of Mateo, but younger, harder-looking. Mugshot quality. The article detailed arrests for vandalism, unpaid debts, a restraining order filed by an ex-girlfriend who claimed he'd stolen from her and threatened her when she tried to leave.
"This is the man you're throwing your life away for?" Thomas's voice was soft, deadly. "This is who you think understands you?"
The words on the screen blurred as I tried to process them. Financial irresponsibility. Pattern of manipulation. History of targeting wealthy women. Each phrase felt like a physical blow.
My phone buzzed again. A text from Mother's assistant: Three major donors threatening to pull funding if the family doesn't distance itself from the scandal. Need an immediate statement.
"These could be fabricated," I whispered, but even as I said it, doubt crept in like poison.
"They're not. I had them verified by a private investigator." Thomas tucked the phone away. "Charlotte, I'm not telling you this to hurt you. I'm telling you because I care about you. Because I want to protect you from making a mistake that could destroy everything your family has built."
Another buzz. This time, a voice message from Mother, her tone arctic: "Charlotte, the board meeting has been moved to four o'clock. Three foundation partnerships are at risk. We need you home immediately to discuss damage control."
The silence between us stretched. I imagined my grandmother at this very table, smiling tightly while the world dictated her worth in carats and connections. How many times had she wanted to stand, to scream, to walk away? How many generations of Morgan women had sat in chairs like this one, perfectly still, while their lives were negotiated around them?
My phone buzzed again. Another text, this one from a number I didn't recognize: Saw the photos, hun. That artist guy is just using you for money. Rich girls are easy targets for guys like him. Wake up.
Something inside me snapped.
I stood up so abruptly that my chair scraped against the marble floor, drawing attention from nearby tables. Thomas looked startled—the first genuine emotion I'd seen from him all day.
"Charlotte, sit down. People are staring."
"Let them stare." I reached up and unclasped the diamond bracelet, the one that had belonged to my great-great-grandmother, the one Mother had insisted I wear to remind me of my "heritage."
My grandmother once said these stones had seen more history than most nations. They were worn through war, scandal, and coronations. They called diamonds eternal. But no one ever talked about how heavy they were.
The stones caught the afternoon light as I set the bracelet on the table between us.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm done," I said, my voice carrying across the dining room. "I'm done with arrangements and expectations and being told what I want."
Thomas's face went pale. "Charlotte, lower your voice."
But I was past caring. The entire dining room had gone quiet; the elite of Beverly Hills society watched our table like it was dinner theatre.
"You want to know what I want, Thomas?" I pulled off the remaining Cartier earring, the twin to the one I'd lost in Mateo's arms. "I want to choose my own life. I want to fall in love with someone who sees me as more than a merger opportunity."
I placed the earring next to the bracelet. Here I was, leaving them next to a half-eaten steak. Good.
"I want to feel alive. Not suffocated. I want passion. Not arrangements." My voice rose. "Charlotte Morgan is not for sale."
The silence that followed was deafening. I could see phones appearing at other tables, society mavens already typing furiously, eager to be the first to report on Charlotte Morgan's public meltdown.
A woman at the next table gasped audibly. Someone else muttered, "Her mother will be furious."
Thomas stood abruptly, reaching toward me with panic, finally cracking his composed mask. "Charlotte, don't do this. Think about what you're throwing away."
"Yes, I am." I grabbed my purse, my hands shaking with adrenaline and terror and something that felt dangerously like freedom. "And you know what, Thomas? It feels amazing."
I didn't even glance back.
I walked out of the Beverly Hills Country Club with my head high, leaving behind a table full of diamonds and a room full of whispers. My phone was already ringing before I reached the valet stand.
Then, I saw him, and the roar of a motorcycle engine broke through the air.