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“You’re right. This has Bennett’s fingerprints all over it.”
“And you're OK with that?” Serena fastens a delicate silver bracelet around my wrist. “Him orchestrating this whole thing?”
I meet my reflection's eyes, searching for an answer I don't have. “I don't know. Part of me wants to slap him. Part of me wants to...”
“Jump his perfectly tailored bones?” Serena supplies helpfully.
“Something like that.” I smooth my hands over the dress one last time. “It's complicated. I'm still furious about Phase Two, but...”
“But you miss him,” she finishes softly.
I nod, unable to deny it. “I do. I miss him more than I've ever missed anyone. It's like someone carved out a piece of me.”
“Love makes us stupid,” Serena says, squeezing my shoulder. “Even when it's with someone who's basically a walking red flag factory.”
My phone pings with a notification. “Car's downstairs.”
“Ready to make corporate Chicago's most eligible bachelor cry into his champagne?”
I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “As ready as I'll ever be.”
The driver holds the door as we slide into a sleek black Bentley. The leather seats are butter-soft against my bare shoulders, and a bottle of Dom Pérignon waits in an ice bucket.
“Definitely not your father's doing,” Serena whispers,running her hand over the pristine upholstery. “Unless Robert Carmichael secretly won the lottery while we weren't looking.”
“He's pulling out all the stops,” I murmur, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach. Part of me wants to be annoyed at Bennett's presumption, at the way he's orchestrating this reunion. But another part of me—the part that's missed him like oxygen—is thrilled by the effort. The care. The attention to every detail.
“So what's your game plan?” Serena asks, popping the champagne with practiced ease. “Icy dignity? Passionate confrontation? Pretend he doesn't exist while flirting with every eligible bachelor in Chicago?”
I accept the flute she offers, watching bubbles rise to the surface. “I don't know. I honestly don't know what I'll do when I see him.”
“That's the spirit. Keep him guessing.” She clinks her glass against mine. “Though if you decide to skip straight to angry makeup sex in a coat closet, at least text me so I can get a ride home.”
“I'm not having sex with Bennett in a coat closet,” I insist, though the mental image sends a shiver down my spine.
“Mmhmm.” Serena smirks over her champagne. “That's what they all say before they end up with their dress hiked up against a wall of fur coats.”
The Bentley glides through Chicago's evening traffic, the city lights blurring into streams of gold and silver outside the tinted windows. The champagne warms my blood, easing the knot of tension between my shoulders. By the time we arrive at the Grand Chicago Hotel, I feel almost calm. Almost ready.
“Holy mother of luxury,” Serena breathes as we step out at the entrance.
The Grand Chicago Hotel is transformed, its limestone facade bathed in elegant blue lighting. A red carpet stretches from the curb to the massive doors, flanked by photographers and event staff. Above the entrance, a projection of the James Foundation logo shimmers against the night sky.
“Ms. Carmichael,” a staffer with an earpiece greets us, consulting a tablet. “Welcome to the James Foundation Gala. Ms. James has requested you join the reception in the Azure Room before the main event.”
I glance at Serena, whose eyes widen slightly. “The Azure Room? That's where the real power players gather before these things. Someone's rolling out the red carpet for you, girl.”
We follow our guide through the hotel's grand foyer, past towering floral arrangements and clusters of Chicago's elite in evening wear. I feel eyes tracking our progress—curious glances that linger a beat too long on my face, my dress, my companion. The weight of their scrutiny makes me straighten my spine, channel something of Bennett's confidence as we approach ornate double doors guarded by staff in black suits.
“Ms. Carmichael and guest,” our guide announces.
The Azure Room lives up to its name with walls washed in soft blue light that makes everything kind of glow. Only about thirty people occupy the space, each one exuding a particular kind of power that comes with extreme wealth or influence. I recognize faces from magazine covers and news segments—CEOs, politicians, old money families whose names grace buildings across thecity. And there, near the windows overlooking the Chicago skyline, stands Willa James herself.
Willa James, wife of tech billionaire Landon James. He built a billion-dollar empire in the 90s that made him a legend in tech circles, but ever since he met and married his wife, it seems philanthropy has become the passion for them both.
“Ms. Carmichael!” Willa says with a smile that lights up her entire face. “I'm so pleased you could join us.” She extends her hand, and I'm struck by the warmth in her eyes. Not the cold calculation I expected from someone in her position, but genuine welcome.
“Mrs. James, thank you for the invitation.” I shake her hand, trying not to appear as intimidated as I feel. “And for the dress. It's stunning.”