Amaya
The photos came in at 8:43 a.m.
Subject line: Final Selects – Devreaux x Knight Engagement
No greeting. No context. Just a Dropbox link and a one-liner:
> "Let us know if you need anything else."
I opened them in bed, still half-wrapped in sleep. My coffee was already going cold. My hair was knotted from sleep, and my phone cast soft blue light into the stillness of morning.
The photos were beautiful.
Painfully so.
One had Christian looking at me, not through me, not past me, not for the sake of a camera. Just... looking. Really looking.
Another caught me mid-laugh, hair lifted by wind, his hand resting naturally at my waist. We hadn't been speaking. We hadn't even been touching moments before. But the camera had its own version of the truth.
I picked a few favorites and sent them to Hannah.
> Me: "They're here. Just opened them."
Hannah: "Oh my God. Hold on."
[Then, almost immediately:]
"THIS one. You look like royalty. He looks like he knows it."
"Post it. Soft. Smug. But soft."
I smiled, saved three, and paused on one.
The skyline behind us blurred like a dream. My eyes were on him. His hand, familiar now, was at my waist like it had always belonged there.
I posted it.
Caption: soon. mrs.
And somehow, even with my account set to private, I already knew:
The blogs were coming.
---
Christian
I posted mine at 9:32 a.m.
My assistant had flagged a handful of selects. One had already been pre-approved for press. My team had pre-written the caption. Standard PR gloss.
I deleted it.
Typed: "Spring comes early this year."
Posted it. Closed the app. Poured my coffee.
That was the whole moment.
But somehow it didn't feel small.
---
Amaya
By 10:15, it had caught fire.
Screenshots on Twitter. Caption guesses. TikToks with slow zoom-ins and piano covers of romantic ballads.
The internet spoke a language we hadn't taught them, but somehow, they were fluent.
> "That is not PR. That is a man looking at his forever."
"You can't fake the softness in his eyes."
"This is the kind of love that makes you feel lucky just to witness it."
"Ava who?"
"This is legacy. This is power. And this? This is love."
Then came the headlines.
> Devreaux & Knight: When Money Marries Meaning.
A New Kind of Royalty: Grace Meets Grit in a Quietly Iconic Engagement Shoot.
Viewers Say: 'This Is the First Time I've Wanted a Couple to Win.'
My phone vibrated like it was trying to escape the nightstand. DMs. Mentions. Calls.
I muted everything.
By noon, the post wasn't mine anymore. It belonged to the internet now.
---
The next morning, a note arrived.
Handwritten. Delivered by someone I didn't recognize.
No assistant. No intermediary. Just paper, ink, and weight.
> Amaya,
I'd love to have you for lunch today at noon.
Just us — nothing formal.
Thought it might be nice to share a moment without the world watching.
Warmly,
Elaine Knight.
I read it twice. Then folded it carefully and set it beside my now-familiar morning coffee.
Of course I'd go.
---
The Knight Estate
The estate was still, manicured, and intimidating in its silence — the kind of wealth that had nothing to prove. Elegance that didn't need to announce itself.
Elaine opened the door herself.
She wore a soft grey sweater and pearls, her hair swept up like something out of an old film. She was beautiful, in that quiet, aching way people are when they've seen too much and said too little.
"You get more beautiful every time," she said.
"That photo you posted. I've never seen Christian look that... present."
We sat in the sunroom. No staff, no curated lunch spread. Just lemon tea, glass windows, and two women trying to bridge the world between them.
"Your mother and I were very thoughtful about this arrangement,"she said gently.
"I figured."
"Not because it was convenient. Because it made sense. You belong here. Not because you follow the rules, but because you question them. That's what Christian's always needed."
The silence between us stretched. It was not awkward, just honest.
She looked out the window. Light cut across her cheekbones like sculpture.
"We hope that maybe you'll love each other someday. You'd be a good kind of inevitable."
I didn't answer. Didn't need to.
"We're planning a small engagement party. Something for family and friends."
"That sounds fine."
"Good. I'll make sure he agrees."
---
When I left, the air outside had that strange clarity it gets after a storm.
A single photographer stood across the street, far enough to be discreet, but close enough to know what he was doing. The camera clicked just as I tied my coat.
Two hours later, it was everywhere.
> Devreaux Leaves the Knight Estate — A Private Lunch with the Matriarch
Future In-Laws Bond Behind Estate Gates. Blessing, Secured.
Comments flooded in.
"She's not playing the game. She's rewriting the rulebook."
"Elaine's in love with her — Christian doesn't stand a chance."
"She's way prettier and humble than Ava."
"This isn't Ava's story anymore. And it never was."
---
Christian
Jordan sent me the article.
> "Your mom had lunch with her? That's... new. Guess she's all in."
I didn't reply.
I just stared at the image:
Amaya stepping out of the house I grew up in like she had always belonged there.
My phone buzzed again.
Ava.
I let it ring. And ring. And fade.
Then I just sat there, staring at the door on my screen. Not the one in front of me. But the one she'd just walked out of.