Chapter 1 The Lunch Invitation

Amelia Pierce hadn’t planned on stepping foot in Bryson Hearst’s office that day.

It wasn’t on her schedule.

It wasn’t even in her mental orbit.

Her day was supposed to be simple: finalize the last details for the Bellamy Grand charity gala, send out donor confirmations, and maybe—just maybe—get through one morning without Carl criticizing something about her.

But instead, he’d looked up from his phone at breakfast, barely, and said,

“Meet me at my office at noon. We’ll grab something quick between meetings.”

Lunch.

Together.

They hadn’t had lunch together in years.

When she came downstairs an hour later, Carl was already in the kitchen, standing by the counter in a blue suit that never suited him and a red tie she wished she could outlaw. The October sunlight streaming in made the clash of colors worse, but he didn’t notice. He was too busy scrolling his phone.

He didn’t even look up when she entered.

Amelia set her handbag down, then moved to the counter to make herself tea. Chamomile. Warm. Calm. A small ritual that felt like breathing room.

“We got another donation for the art program this morning,” she said, checking her tablet. “That puts us closer to—”

“Good for you,” Carl cut in.

She bit down a sigh and buttered a slice of toast, then set the slow cooker on the counter. Beef, potatoes, carrots, onions — her hands moved automatically. She added broth, snapped on the lid, and reached for her tea.

Carl finally lifted his gaze.

Not to her face.

To her outfit.

“That what you’re wearing today?”

Amelia blinked and looked down at herself. A cream blouse tucked into a charcoal skirt with a modest hemline. Simple, professional, undeniably appropriate.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” she asked.

Carl’s expression tightened. “Just make sure you show up looking appropriate. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Amelia raised a brow and snapped her fingers twice.

“Oh, you jazzy today, huh?”

He frowned, confused.

She leaned back against the counter and let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “In all seriousness, Carl… I said what I said. There’s nothing wrong with my outfit.”

His jaw ticked. “I said what I said.”

She sipped her tea, calm as a light breeze — which irritated him more.

“I’m heading out,” he muttered, snatching his keys. “We’re riding separately. Ben will drive you. He works for us now.”

She didn’t respond.

The door to the garage slammed behind him.

Amelia stood perfectly still for three seconds. Then exhaled, long and slow, like she’d been holding her breath all morning.

Carl had always been controlling in little ways — commenting on her hair, her clothes, her body (even claiming her breasts were “on display” in a damn turtleneck), side-eyeing her conversations with her best friend, and making remarks about how much she ate despite her being a healthy, toned 140 pounds with curves in all the right places.

But lately?

He’d been trying to control everything.

And if he wanted to start with her outfit this morning?

Fine.

She walked upstairs with purpose.

Amelia opened her closet and reached for something she rarely let Carl see. Not because she couldn’t wear it — she could wear whatever she damn well pleased — but because she’d grown tired of the fights. Today wasn’t a fighting day. Today was a making-a-point day.

She pulled out a black fitted one-piece jumpsuit.

Long sleeves.

A cinched waist.

Smooth, sculpted lines hugging her frame.

At the ankles, neat little bows tied the tapered legs into something feminine and devastatingly chic.

She stepped into it, smoothing the fabric over her hips. It felt like confidence woven into clothing.

Then she selected the shoes.

Her black Christian Louboutin Lady Z 120mm heels — glossy patent leather, wickedly high, red soles sharp enough to count as a weapon. They gave her height, posture, power.

Next came the perfect finishing layer: a nude waist-length coat, soft camel in tone, structured at the shoulders and open in the front. The hem hit high on her thighs, framing the sleek black jumpsuit and highlighting the strength of her silhouette.

Jewelry was simple and intentional.

Yellow gold hoops that caught the light.

A thin gold chain that skimmed her collarbone.

A delicate bracelet around her wrist.

Minimal, elegant, impossible to overlook.

She looked at her reflection and felt a slow, confident smile pull at her lips.

This was her.

Unafraid.

Unshrinking.

Unapologetic.

If Carl wanted to start micromanaging her this morning…

She’d give him something worth micromanaging.

And Bryson Hearst?

He wasn’t going to miss a single detail.

Downstairs, the sleek black town car waited at the curb.

The driver stepped out — mid-forties, neatly pressed suit, a calm, steady demeanor that reminded her vaguely of military discipline.

“Mrs. Pierce?” he asked.

“Amelia,” she corrected with a warm smile. “And you’re Ben?”

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Pierce asked me to take you wherever you need today.”

Of course he did.

Control wrapped in courtesy.

“Thank you, Ben,” she said as she stepped into the car.

The ride through their maple-lined neighborhood was quiet. Amelia sipped the last of her tea and watched the familiar streets blur by. She used to love mornings — the softness, the stillness, the promise. Now they felt like a countdown to whatever fight she didn’t want to have.

Manhattan came into view quickly, the Bellamy Grand rising like a glass palace. Inside, the ballroom buzzed with organized chaos: florists adjusting towering arrangements, servers polishing silver, lighting techs warming the room with golden ambiance.

It felt good to be needed here.

To be respected.

To hold authority without having to fight for it.

She moved through the ballroom checking linens, sightlines, lighting, moving tables and the silent auction placement. Every detail mattered. And it showed.

Twenty minutes later, Ben was already parked outside, waiting.

The ride to Hearst & Pierce Global felt heavier.

Maybe because she knew Carl was there.

Maybe because this building reminded her of too many years spent pretending everything was fine.

Maybe because fate was nudging her someplace she never expected to be.

The car eased to a stop in front of the skyscraper’s mirrored façade.

Ben opened her door.

“Good luck, Amelia.”

“Thank you,” she said with a small smile before stepping inside.

The lobby was breathtaking, as always — gleaming marble floors, gold-veined pillars, a massive crystal chandelier throwing light like diamonds across the polished surfaces. The air smelled faintly of money and influence.

And then she saw him.

George.

The security guard she’d known for years.

The man who’d rescued her the first time she’d ever visited Carl here, when her name hadn’t been on the visitor list and she’d had to stand there awkwardly pretending to read a sports magazine.

George looked up, saw her, and broke into that warm, genuine smile she appreciated more than he knew.

“Morning, Mrs. Pierce,” he greeted. “Here to see your husband?”

Amelia stepped closer, returning the smile — soft, honest, familiar.

“Yes,” she said, leaning in a little. “And I’m guessing I’m not on the list again, am I?”