The Vanderbilt estate had transformed into a palace of light and illusion.
Fairy lights draped across the grand terrace like constellations, chandeliers flickered behind crystal-paned doors, and the air hummed with soft music, clinking glasses, and conversations laced with ambition. Guests flowed in — men in sleek suits, women draped in silk and secrets, each one playing a role they'd perfected over decades.
Alina stood near the edge of the marble staircase, poised in her golden gown. The fabric clung to her figure like it was painted on, glittering every time she moved beneath the lights. The pearl necklace rested softly against her collarbone, as delicate and restrained as her smile.
"Remember," Vivian whispered beside her, "you're not here to be interesting. You're here to be ideal."
Alina gave a slight nod, and the performance began.
She descended the stairs slowly, gracefully, every movement measured — not because she wanted to impress, but because she was watched. Always. Her father stood near the bar, already mid-discussion with Charles DiLaurent. Her brothers were scattered through the crowd, laughing with diplomats, influencers, and heirs.
A waiter offered her a glass of champagne. She took it but didn't drink.
"Alina," came a voice behind her — velvet-smooth and vaguely amused.
She turned to find Julien DiLaurent — the son. Tall. Well-dressed. Smiling like the night was already his. "You look stunning. Though I'm sure you've heard that at least a dozen times tonight."
"Only nine," she replied, voice even. "But who's counting?"
He chuckled, stepping closer. "Shall we dance?"
Alina hesitated.
Not because she couldn't — she'd been trained to waltz before she could properly tie her shoes — but because everything about him felt like a continuation of the life she didn't choose.
Still, she gave him her hand.
As he led her to the center of the dance floor, the orchestra swelled into something slow and elegant. They moved in time with the music, and she let her body follow the rhythm while her mind drifted elsewhere.
She noticed things: the way her father watched from the corner of his eye, the approving nod her mother gave, the subtle glances from other families. But mostly, she noticed the numbness — the hollowness of performing grace without feeling it.
"You're quiet," Julien said softly, spinning her in a circle that made the world blur.
"I suppose I don't have much to say that hasn't been rehearsed."
He tilted his head. "I hope I'm not part of that script."
Alina looked at him, really looked, and realized she didn't care if he was charming. She didn't care what he wanted. She only cared about how tightly the room held her — how there was no oxygen in a place filled with people.
As the music swelled again, her eyes drifted — past the guests, past the servers, past the columns —
And out toward the garden.
Where a shadow moved. Just once.
A flicker of someone unfamiliar.
She blinked. But it was gone.
She turned back to Julien, smile fixed in place.
But something in her heart had already tilted. Slightly.
Quietly.
And the first crack had formed in the glass.
The music slowed.
Not faded — slowed — like time itself sensed what was coming. Alina felt it first in the air: a shift, a pause, a held breath.
Julien's hand was still on hers as the final note of the waltz dissolved into applause. Guests clapped politely, champagne flowed, and laughter hummed again. But then she saw her father step forward onto the small raised platform near the orchestra.
He only ever stepped forward when something needed to be declared — or claimed.
A waiter struck a bell.
The room quieted instantly.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Edward Vanderbilt's voice rang clear and commanding, "thank you all for joining us on this beautiful evening. It's a privilege to be surrounded by allies, friends, and… family."
Alina froze mid-step.
Something in her bones screamed.
"I've spent a lifetime building something lasting — and now, with the ever-growing success of DiLaurent Holdings, it is time we shape the future… together."
There were a few murmurs of recognition, smiles exchanged, heads turning. Everyone already knew. Everyone except her.
Edward continued, "It is with pride — and great pleasure — that I announce the merger of Vanderbilt Enterprises and the DiLaurent empire. Two legacies, united as one."
Applause erupted.
Alina stared at her father. Her mother beamed. Her brothers nodded approvingly, as if this was inevitable. Julien looked down at her with something between satisfaction and apology.
But Edward wasn't finished.
"To secure this powerful alliance," he said, his eyes settling on Alina like a command, "my daughter, Alina Vanderbilt , will be formally engaged to Julien DiLaurent."
Her ears rang.
The applause returned, louder, thunderous, like a storm crashing through her skull. A few guests gasped in polite delight. Her mother clapped like this was a wedding already won.
Alina couldn't move.
Julien took her hand again. "Smile," he whispered, barely audible. "They're all watching."
So she did.
She smiled — softly, sweetly — and felt her soul fracture beneath the surface.
It wasn't the announcement.
It was the certainty of it.
Like a script written without her consent. A future sold off in exchange for empire.
She looked around the glittering room. And for the first time in years, she truly saw it for what it was:
A golden cage.
And she was the ribbon around the lock.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The private lounge was swathed in velvet and low light, filled with laughter that didn't quite reach the soul.
After the announcement, the main hall had exploded into congratulations and champagne, but now only the key players remained. Two empires in one room: the Vanderbilts and the DiLaurents. Fathers with gold-tipped ambition. Mothers with smiles sharp as diamonds. Sons and a daughter dressed like royalty. The power behind the curtain.
Alina sat on a curved velvet sofa, a champagne flute untouched in her hand. The pearl necklace felt tighter now, like it had turned to wire.
"To new beginnings!" Edward raised his glass. "And a future secured."
"To the perfect match," added Celeste DiLaurent — Julien's mother — her accent silked with charm, her eyes weighing Alina like an investment. "You are radiant, my dear. Julien is lucky."
Alina gave a smile so flawless, it almost fooled herself.
Julien sat beside her, arm casually draped across the back of the sofa. "I suppose we'll be seeing quite a lot of each other now."
"You suppose correctly," she replied smoothly, though her tone carried a coolness that only he noticed.
Her brothers clinked glasses with Julien, laughing as if they'd won a silent war. Her mother sipped red wine and leaned in to whisper something to Celeste — something that made both women glance at Alina, then smile tighter.
"Of course," Julien's father, Vincent DiLaurent, added, "the wedding will be the event of the decade. Paris, perhaps?"
"Too predictable," Vivian said with a soft chuckle. "We're thinking Florence. A summer wedding in the gardens."
Alina stared at them — all of them — mapping out her life like it was a business strategy, as if her heart wasn't even worth consulting.
She looked at her father, who noticed her gaze and nodded once.
Approval. Authority. Finality.
She was the Vanderbilt daughter. She was the deal.
But somewhere deep inside her chest, something shifted. A whisper, a flare, a thread of resistance pulling tight.
This wasn't her story. Not yet.
"I'm tired," she said suddenly, standing. "It's been a long night."
"Of course, darling," Vivian said, a bit too sweetly. "Rest well. You'll need your glow tomorrow. The press is coming for portraits."
Alina nodded, gave each guest the required final smile, and turned toward the hallway — away from the smiles, the clinks, the plan. Her heels echoed softly on the marble as she walked faster, needing to breathe, to think, to feel something real.
She didn't know where she was going.
Only that it had to be somewhere else.
—————
The door clicked shut behind her.
Alina stood in the center of her room — a sprawling, luxurious space gilded with soft light and expensive silence. The gold of her gown shimmered faintly in the mirror as she moved past it, unzipping it without care and letting it slip to the floor like the false identity it represented.
She stepped out of her heels and walked barefoot across the cold marble, toward the tall balcony doors that opened to the night.
Cool air greeted her as she stepped outside. The sky was velvet-dark, stars scattered in indifference, and the garden below stretched like a sleeping painting. The lights from the party still flickered in the distance, soft music still carried on the breeze, but up here, she was finally alone.
She gripped the iron railing and stared down at the perfectly trimmed hedges and marble fountains. Everything in its place. Controlled. Beautiful. Hollow.
Her engagement had been decided without her consent. The future mapped and sealed with toasts and laughter. A contract masquerading as romance.
She'd smiled. She'd played the part.
And now she was here — stripped of the performance — left only with the truth.
She didn't love Julien. She barely knew him.
And worse… she didn't want any of this.
Alina closed her eyes, leaning into the breeze. Somewhere beyond these walls, life existed — unpolished, uncertain, real. People who didn't speak in scripts. Who didn't measure love in stock value or inheritance.
She let out a slow breath.
And then… something caught her eye.
A figure.
Faint. Down in the far corner of the garden. Half-shrouded by shadow and moonlight. Someone moving quietly, rhythmically — not a guest. Not a brother. Not a businessman.
No.
This person moved with intention. Unhurried. Humble.
She narrowed her eyes, but he was already gone behind a hedge wall.