"Okay—just one more shot," Skye said for the fourth time, angling her phone like she was on set for a Vogue cover. "Actually, wait, the lighting by the stairs is perfect right now. Trust me."
"I thought the one by the mirror was the last one," I muttered, but I still followed her, lifting the hem of my gown slightly to avoid stepping on it.
"You looked too serious in that one. This needs to scream, effortless elegance with a hint of danger."
"Skye."
"Lena. Smile—but like you're about to ruin someone's reputation with just one sentence."
I gave her the look, and she burst into laughter. "There it is! That's the one!"
The flash went off a few times as I stood in front of the tall staircase at the entrance of our house—excuse me, our family's estate—draped in a floor-length black gown that hugged me like it was made for this moment. Because it had been. Sleek satin, an open back, and a neckline that earned a raised brow from Kelly earlier. I wore it anyway.
The diamond teardrop pendant rested just above the dip of the fabric. A subtle nod to tradition in an otherwise very modern silhouette.
Skye flipped through the photos like she was reviewing a gallery exhibit. "Okay, you're going to thank me for these later. You look unreal."
"I'll thank you after tonight," I said, smoothing my hands down the sides of my dress. "If I survive."
"You always do."
Just then, a soft knock echoed from the front door. Kelly opened it, peeking in with military precision.
"Car's here. Time to go."
I nodded, grabbing my clutch. Skye reached for hers too—she wouldn't miss this for anything.
As we stepped outside, the black town car was waiting, sleek and polished, headlights cutting through the darkening sky. The air was cooler now, and the quiet hum of the city sat low in the background.
My driver, Marcus, held the door open. "Evening, Miss Sterling. Miss Skye."
"Evening, Marcus," I said, sliding into the back seat.
Skye followed, settling in beside me as the door clicked shut behind us.
The drive began, the estate slipping away behind tinted windows as we headed toward the gala. Streetlights blurred past, and for a few minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then Skye nudged me gently. "Nervous?"
I stared out the window. "Maybe a little."
She didn't push. She didn't need to.
The closer we got to the Ashford gala, the tighter the knot in my chest pulled. Not just because I was about to walk into a room filled with people who'd made careers out of silent judgment and strategic smiles—but because I'd see him.
And Ethan Ashford?
He was just the beginning.
The car glided through the city like we were floating, insulated from the honking and chaos just beyond the glass. Skye busied herself scrolling through the photos she have just taken, muttering things like, "This one's editorial," and "God, the Ashfords aren't ready."
I, on the other hand, just sat there, staring outside watching the views, fingers tapping absently against my clutch.
"Hey," she said, finally setting the phone down. "You okay?"
I shrugged. "Fine."
"You always say that when you're very much not fine."
I let out a breath. "It's just… everything. The dress. The gala. My parents. The Ashford. My ex. This whole Sterling performance."
Skye tilted her head, her tone gentler now. "You don't have to carry all of it tonight. Just show up. Be you. Even if they want you to be a hundred other things."
I looked over at her. "And who exactly is 'me' anymore?"
Skye didn't miss a beat. "Someone who's survived heartbreak, pressure, expectations—and still manages to look like a goddess in heels."
I couldn't help but smile, even if it was small. "You are ridiculously good at pep talks."
"It's my best friend duty. I take it very seriously."
Outside, the buildings started growing taller, glass and gold reflecting the sunset as we neared the heart of the city. The skyline looked like it was painted in oranges and dusky pinks, everything warm and glowing. It almost made the night feel promising—almost.
"Want some music?" Skye asked, reaching for the control panel.
"Nothing dramatic," I warned.
"No violins. Got it."
She settled on something low and smooth—classic jazz, humming softly beneath the city's energy. I leaned back into the leather seat, letting the music fill the silence.
For a fleeting moment, I closed my eyes and imagined the night going smoothly. No awkward run-ins. No fake smiles. No weight pressing on my shoulders.
Then reality returned with the voice of the GPS and the familiar turn into the Ashford district—an area so polished, it looked like it had been plucked straight from a luxury magazine spread.
My phone buzzed with a message from Kelly:
"Cameras outside the venue. Be camera-ready when you step out."
I locked the screen without responding.
"Showtime," I muttered.
As we turned the final corner, the Ashford estate came into view—tall, lit up, and impossible to ignore. The entrance was already lined with black cars, photographers, and men in earpieces.
Skye leaned forward, eyes wide. "Oh, damn. They went all out this year."
"They always do," I said, adjusting the neckline of my dress.
The car slowed, and the driver glanced back. "We've arrived, Miss Sterling."
The flash of cameras started before the car even fully stopped.
Skye looked at me, her expression a mix of excitement and concern. "Last chance to escape through the sunroof."
I exhaled, offering a smirk. "Tempting."
But instead, I reached for the door handle, squared my shoulders, and reminded myself—this night may be filled with games, but I wasn't here to lose.
Not this time.