Charlotte's POV - The Next Morning
I was still in my robe, coffee growing cold in my hands, when the doorbell rang at seven AM. Through the peephole, I saw my mother's perfectly coiffed hair and knew Thomas had already made his first move.
"Darling, you look terrible." Mother swept past me without invitation, her Chanel suit immaculate despite the early hour. "We need to talk."
I closed the door, my stomach already sinking. "Mother, if Thomas sent you—"
"Thomas is worried sick about you. As am I." She settled onto my white sofa like she was claiming territory. "He told me about your... episode last night."
"My episode?"
"The paranoia, dear. The accusations." Her voice carried that particular blend of concern and condescension I'd grown up with. "He's being very understanding, but there are limits."
I sat across from her, suddenly feeling like a child being scolded. "Did he tell you about the jewelry?"
"Some mix-up with a delivery. These things happen." She waved a manicured hand dismissively. "The point is, you made a scene. People are already talking."
"Let them talk."
Mother's eyes sharpened. "Charlotte Morgan, you will not let them talk. Do you have any idea what this family has invested in your future? What's at stake?"
"My happiness?"
She laughed, but there was no warmth in it. "Happiness is a luxury we can't afford right now. Your father's business is... struggling. The merger with Thomas's firm isn't just beneficial—it's necessary."
The words hit like cold water. "What do you mean, struggling?"
"Bad investments. Market fluctuations. The details don't matter." She leaned forward, her expression softening into practiced maternal concern. "What matters is that Thomas is offering us a lifeline. A way to keep everything we've built."
I stared at her, seeing clearly for the first time. "You know about his affairs."
The pause was microscopic, but I caught it.
"I know about gossip and rumors," she said carefully. "I also know that successful men sometimes... stray. It's unfortunate, but not uncommon. Certainly not worth destroying a family over."
"A family? Or a business deal?"
"They're the same thing, darling. They always have been."
My hands were shaking as I set down my coffee cup. "So you want me to marry a man who's cheating on me to save Dad's company?"
"I want you to be practical. Thomas provides security, status, a future. These romantic notions about love and fidelity—they're childish. Real marriage is about partnership, shared goals."
"Shared goals like covering up his affairs?"
Mother's mask slipped for just a moment, revealing something cold and calculating underneath. "Like understanding that some truths are less important than stability. Like knowing that a smart woman protects what matters."
"And what if I don't want to be that smart?"
"Then you'll lose everything." The threat was delivered with perfect politeness. "Your trust fund is tied to family approval, as you well know. Your apartment, your lifestyle, your place in society—all of it depends on making the right choices."
I felt the walls closing in. The trust fund I'd never thought about because it had always just... existed. The apartment I'd taken for granted. The safety net I'd never realized was a cage.
"You're blackmailing me."
"I'm protecting you. And if you can't see that, then perhaps Thomas is right about your... fragile state of mind."
The implication hung in the air like poison. I could see the whole picture now—Thomas painting me as unstable, my parents positioned as concerned guardians, everyone agreeing I needed "help" getting back on track.
"I need time to think."
"You have until tonight. Thomas is planning to announce your engagement party at the Hendersons' dinner. Five hundred guests, all the right people." She stood, smoothing her skirt. "I suggest you wear the blue Valentino. It photographs well."
After she left, I sat in my empty apartment, finally understanding the true cost of the life I'd been born into. Everything came with strings attached. Everything was conditional.
My phone buzzed. Thomas: I hope your mother helped clarify things. See you at eight.
Mateo's POV - Same Day
"Paris?" Sophie nearly dropped her espresso. "Are you insane?"
We sat in the small café near my studio, the morning light harsh against the cracked windows. I'd been staring at the same newspaper for twenty minutes, not seeing the words.
"There's nothing left for me here."
"There's your career. Your life. Your—"
"My what? My string of rejections? My empty studio?" I gestured toward the street, where early commuters hurried past without seeing us. "This city doesn't want what I'm offering."
"So you're running away."
"I'm moving forward. There's a difference."
Sophie studied me over her cup, her dark eyes skeptical. "This is about her, isn't it? The rich girl."
I didn't answer, which was answer enough.
"Mateo, you can't build a life around avoiding someone else's ghost."
"I'm not avoiding anything. I'm choosing something." I pulled out the letter I'd been carrying for weeks—acceptance to a residency program in Montmartre. "Three months, maybe six. A chance to remember who I was before..."
Before Charlotte. Before those golden mornings that had ruined me for any other light.
"Before you fell in love with someone who was never really available."
The words stung because they were true. But truth didn't make the paintings stop coming, didn't make the dreams fade, didn't make her face disappear from every canvas I touched.
"When?" Sophie asked quietly.
"Next week. I've already booked the flight."
"And if she changes her mind? If she comes looking for you?"
I thought about that possibility—Charlotte standing in my empty studio, finding nothing but dust and abandoned dreams. The image should have satisfied some part of me that still ached with rejection.
Instead, it just made me tired.
"Then she'll find out I finally learned to leave first."
Sophie reached across the table, her hand covering mine. "Paris won't fix this, you know. The hurt follows you wherever you go."
"Maybe. But at least in Paris, the hurt will have better architecture."
She laughed despite herself. "You're an idiot."
"Probably. But I'm an idiot with a plane ticket."
My phone buzzed—a text from Diego: Saw the society pages. Your Charlotte's engagement party is tonight. Big news.
I stared at the message, feeling something twist in my chest. Engagement party. So it was official now. All those weeks of wondering, hoping, imagining she might change her mind—all of it finally, definitively over.
I deleted the message and turned back to Sophie. "Help me pack?"
Charlotte's POV - That Evening
The Hendersons' mansion blazed with light, photographers clustered outside like vultures waiting for carrion. I sat in Thomas's car, the blue Valentino dress feeling like armor that wouldn't protect me from anything that mattered.
"You look beautiful," Thomas said, his hand finding mine. His touch was gentle, possessive, confident. "I'm proud of you for seeing reason."
I didn't answer. What was there to say? That reason felt like surrender? That pride tasted like ash?
"The ring is in my pocket," he continued. "Something spectacular. You'll love it."
A ring I hadn't chosen. An engagement I hadn't agreed to. A future mapped out while I sat silent and compliant.
"Charlotte." His voice carried a warning wrapped in silk. "I need you to be present tonight. Engaged. Happy."
"And if I'm not?"
His smile was knife-sharp. "Then we'll have to discuss your... emotional state. Perhaps some time away from the stress of wedding planning. Somewhere quiet, where you can get the help you need."
The threat was crystal clear. Step out of line, and he'd have me committed. With my mother's blessing, my father's financial desperation, and my history of "episodes," who would question it?
"I understand," I whispered.
"Good. Because after tonight, there's no going back. Five hundred witnesses, formal announcements, contracts signed." He squeezed my hand tighter. "We'll be bound in every way that matters."
The car door opened. Cameras flashed. I stepped out into the Beverly Hills night, feeling like I was walking toward my execution.
But as we climbed the marble steps toward the party that would seal my fate, I thought about Mateo somewhere across the city, painting in his studio, free to create whatever truth he wanted.
Some people, I realized, were brave enough to choose their cages.
Tonight, I would discover if I was one of them.