Chapter 3 Unwelcome Invitations

Celeste – POV

The invitation arrived in a slim black envelope, dropped on my dresser like a warning.

Ava handed it to me during breakfast-creamer coffee and one bagel. My anxiety wouldn't let me stomach more than that. Her expression was unreadable.

"The Rosenthal Foundation hosts one of the most exclusive charity events in the city. Black tie. Media heavy. You'll be attending with Mr. Westwood, of course."

I blinked. "That's in... three days?"

"Welcome to your new life."

I was stunned. It was far too soon, and I was incredibly unprepared. I'd expected to wait at least a month before any wifely duties were expected of me.

I turned the invitation over in my hands. Gold lettering on matte cardstock. Who knew a piece of paper could look so intimidating?

"I've never been to a black-tie event," I admitted.

Marla, who had been rearranging silk scarves by the window, clucked her tongue and walked over. She was wearing a pastel lavender blazer over a lemon-yellow blouse and floral-print slacks. Somehow, it worked. Somehow, she worked.

"You'll be fine," she said. "It's just people with money pretending they care about other people with less money."

"She's not wrong," Ava muttered, then cleared her throat. "But appearances are everything. We're currently in contact with a specialist who will handle your clothing, while Marla sees to your hair and makeup.

I suggest you rehearse answers to questions like 'how did you meet?' and 'what does he love most about you?'"

"What does he love most about me?" I asked dryly.

Ava glanced at me over her tablet. "Right now? That you're quiet. Although love might be a bit of a stretch."

Marla gasped dramatically. "Oh, you're sharp today, miss PR."

"I'm always sharp," Ava replied without missing a beat. "Unlike our press circuit, which is still recovering from Mr. Westwood refusing to smile in public for three years straight."

Marla turned back to me and gently lifted a strand of my hair. "Such a rich red colour. We'll soften you for this, think Hepburn with a dash of mystery."

"God, I feel like a mannequin."

"Let's see your best camera smile, Mrs. Westwood. I'll help you practice your lines. Hopefully you won't need them," said Ava with finality.

I laughed, but it didn't reach my chest. The tablecloth beneath my fingers was silk, embroidered with the Westwood crest. It hadn't taken long for me to realize that everything in this house was branded-names stitched into plates, into monograms, into lives. Even the sugar packets at breakfast had the Westwood logo printed in gold.

Was that what I was now? A walking monogram? Something elegant to be displayed but never truly known?

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A young woman, likely a staff member, materialized at the doorway, holding out an old-fashioned telephone.

"Phone call for you, Mrs. Westwood." Marla looked over surreptitiously, eyes shining with interest, then she hurriedly went back to her business of looking busy.

"I assume you saw the invitation," he said over the phone, voice cold and detached.

"That I did. Ava just showed it to me."

"We'll attend."

It wasn't a question.

"And what exactly is expected of me there?" I asked. Ava had already briefed me, but I wanted to hear it from him. I wanted him to say the words aloud.

"To stand beside me. To smile. To not say anything that will end up on the Society column's front page."

I exhaled slowly. "So... window dressing."

"Don't take it personally. You're an accessory with a last name, not a hostage," he said, and for a moment I couldn't tell if it was sarcasm or brutal honesty.

"I suppose I should be flattered," I replied. "A well-dressed paperweight with a pulse."

He was quiet for a beat longer than necessary. "If it's any consolation, they'll care more about your earrings than your opinions. Just smile. Let the cameras catch the angle they want. Then we leave."

"And the charity?" I asked. "What are we pretending to care about this time?"

"The Rosenthal Foundation funds pediatric surgical aid abroad," he said, clipped but accurate. "It's noble on paper. In reality, it's a networking event. Everyone goes to be seen, to drink with donors, and to make promises no one plans to keep."

"That's... bleak."

"That's business."

I swallowed. "What do you want me to say, Adrian? Do you want me to pretend I'm excited? Or would you prefer I shut up and wear the dress?"

"I don't care what you say. Just don't say it where it matters."

"God," I said quietly, "you make it so hard to believe you're human."

"Then stop trying," he said, and for a second, something cracked in his tone. Something tired and too honest.

Before I could respond, he added, more lightly, "Don't worry. I'll have a professional stylist sent up. She'll make sure you pass inspection."

"I don't need one. I already have Marla."

He didn't respond. The line went dead.

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That afternoon, the stylist arrived, a whirlwind of fabrics, pins, and French perfume. Her name was Clarisse Duval, and she was everything I wasn't-bold, tall, stylish in a way that said she breathed Parisian couture. A Gallic beauty with honey-blonde waves tucked behind her ears and a thin silver chain around her neck that sparkled each time she clicked her heels across the floor.

"Madame Westwood," she purred while walking in circles around me, peering through clear-framed glasses. "You have a very interesting frame. It will make dressing you both a challenge and a delight."

What did she mean by that? Her accent made everything sound like a compliment, even when it technically wasn't.

She held up three gowns.

One was a shimmery gold I dismissed immediately, far too loud for my taste. The second was a blood-red mermaid gown, dramatic and far too tight to breathe in. Perhaps later, when I was feeling more bold.

The third was a dark green colour, dazzling and elegant. A sleeveless satin number with a sl*t up the leg and a neckline that curved just enough to be a socially acceptable amount of scandalous.

I silently wished Marissa was here to help me pick or talk me through being dressed up like a life-sized doll. Heck, I'd even settle for Ava if it meant I wouldn't do it alone.

"This one," I whispered.

Clarisse smiled approvingly. "C'est bonne, Mrs. Westwood. Everyone loves a little mystery."

She left after the fitting, promising to return with accessories by Friday morning. Marla wandered back in, picking invisible lint off the chair cushions like she hadn't been eavesdropping from the hallway.

"Well," she said, "you'll stun them into silence. That'll be your defense. Beauty over commentary."

I smiled faintly, then turned to the mirror. I stood there for a long time after they left, staring at the reflection I barely recognized.

I looked like a woman who belonged to someone powerful, but I didn't feel like her yet. Not quite. Not yet.

But I was learning how to wear the costume.