By noon, the Sterling estate felt like a storm quietly brewing. Assistants came and went. The housekeeper polished the same section of marble twice. Kelly was glued to her tablet, fingers flying over the screen, coordinating with planners and stylists while occasionally tossing me a look that said, "Don't even think about disappearing."
I sat on the velvet chaise in my room, legs tucked under me, flipping through a coffee table book I wasn't really reading. The dress was hanging nearby—steamed, altered, and glowing softly in the light. It felt like the calm before something big. Like once I put it on, I'd be stepping into a role bigger than me.
"Are we really doing this?" I muttered.
Skye, sprawled on the other end of the chaise with a green smoothie in one hand, gave me a look. "We've been doing this. You just have to walk in like you own the room. Because, babe, you kind of do."
I let out a dry laugh. "You mean walk in like I'm not internally screaming."
"You do that every time. No one suspects a thing."
Kelly entered with a sleek black garment bag. "Alright, princess. Final fitting was approved. Jewelry's laid out, shoes are on the rack, and your hair appointment's at three. Gala's at seven. That gives us a buffer for wardrobe meltdowns and mental breakdowns—preferably in that order."
I raised a brow. "You make it sound so fun."
Skye rolled off the couch dramatically. "If you don't have at least one panic cry before a high-profile event, are you even part of high society?"
I couldn't help smiling. "Good to know we're setting the bar low."
As Kelly hung up the garment bag and started prepping my lookbook, Skye wandered over to the window, looking down at the city with a kind of wistful energy I knew all too well.
"Do you think he'll be there?" she asked quietly.
I knew who she meant. Ethan Ashford.
"I'm sure," I said, keeping my tone light, like it didn't matter.
But it did.
And worse, my mind wasn't just on Ethan.
It was still tangled in the shadows of someone else—someone I still wasn't over. Someone who would never walk into a room like this again, not with me.
I hated that he still haunted the edges of moments that had nothing to do with him.
Skye glanced back at me. "You don't have to be ready. You just have to show up."
I swallowed hard and nodded. That was the plan. Show up. Smile. Survive the night.
Fake it until the old pieces stopped hurting.
•
The afternoon slipped by in a blur of hairspray, lipstick samples, and the sound of Kelly politely snapping at people over the phone. My room had turned into a makeshift glam suite—stylists buzzing around, makeup brushes dabbing, curling irons hissing. I sat in front of the full-length mirror, half-lost in the transformation happening to my reflection.
"You know," Skye said from the bed, sipping a second smoothie now, "for someone who claims she hates these events, you wear pressure like it was tailored for you."
I arched a brow. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"Absolutely," she grinned. "You're terrifyingly good at it."
The makeup artist chuckled softly as she blended out the highlight on my cheekbone. "She's right though. You've got resting 'don't even breathe near me' face. It's perfect for red carpets."
Kelly popped her head in again, checking her watch. "You're on schedule. I'm having the car pull up at six-fifteen sharp. Don't smudge anything or decide to spontaneously change your earrings. Please."
I gave her a mock salute. "Copy that."
Still, under all the careful primping, I felt that familiar weight settle in my chest. The one I always got before nights like these. The pressure to be on, to represent, to live up to the expectations stitched into my last name. Tonight wasn't just about showing up—it was about being seen, being remembered.
And whether I liked it or not… Ethan Ashford would be there.
I didn't know what I expected from that—maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
A soft knock interrupted the low hum of activity. One of our housekeepers stepped in quietly and handed Kelly a small velvet box.
"What's that?" I asked, watching Kelly flip it open.
She held it out to me—a delicate necklace, platinum and subtle, with a single diamond teardrop pendant. "From your mother. Said it belonged to your grandmother. She thought it would be… appropriate."
My throat tightened a little.
"She said that?" I asked, surprised.
"She did," Kelly confirmed. "In her very blunt, emotionally-repressed way."
Skye walked over, peering at the necklace. "It's beautiful. Classic. It says 'I'm wealthy, refined, and slightly bored by everyone here.' Perfect for you."
I laughed quietly. "Fine. Let's wear the heirloom."
As Kelly clipped it around my neck, I looked at myself in the mirror again—polished, poised, pulled together.
But still me.
A version of me they all expected to see.
A version I was starting to take back.
•
After the last touch of gloss was applied and the stylists packed up their brushes, the room slowly emptied out. It felt strangely quiet without the constant hum of voices and tools—a silence that pressed in, leaving only the soft rustle of fabric as I stood to smooth out my dress one more time.
Skye leaned against the window, watching the late afternoon light spill over the city skyline. "You ever think about just… not showing up?" she asked, half-teasing, half-serious.
"All the time," I said, stepping into my heels. "But I never do."
"Because you're a Sterling."
I looked at her, then nodded. "Because I'm a Sterling."
And maybe because deep down, part of me wanted to prove—to them, to myself—that I could be more than just the version they built. That I could own the room, the story, the night… even if I didn't always want to.
I grabbed my clutch, checked my phone, and glanced at the time.
One hour to go.
"Alright," I said quietly. "Let's get this over with."
But as we left the room, the necklace catching the light just right against my collarbone, I had a feeling that tonight wouldn't go the way anyone expected.
Especially not me.