Chapter 3 The Laurent Estate

I didn’t sleep a single wink.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Damian’s cold, assessing gaze raking over my daughters’ faces. I saw him tracing Lily’s defiant chin, looking straight into Rose’s gray eyes, and doing the brutal math of nine months and five lost years.

There was no universe in which I would willingly parade my children before him.

At seven in the morning, I kissed my sleeping girls, gave Rosa strict instructions to keep the front blinds drawn, and the deadbolt locked, and hailed a car to the Laurent estate in Old Westbury.

The estate was an aggressive display of dynastic wealth. A mile-long gravel driveway wound through manicured boxwood hedges and towering weeping willows, terminating before a sprawling French Renaissance château of limestone and slate.

I stepped out into the crisp morning air, smoothing the fabric of my navy sheath dress. Under my arm, I carried a revised presentation binder filled with headshots of elite, agency-represented child models. If Isabelle Laurent wanted angelic flower girls, I would provide top-tier professionals. My daughters were off the table.

A butler in formal livery opened the heavy wrought-iron doors without a sound. "Ms. Winters? Miss Laurent is waiting in the sun room."

I followed him through vaulted corridors hung with classical oil paintings and crystal chandeliers.

The sun room was bathed in pale morning light. Seated in a velvet chaise lounge beside a silver tea service was Isabelle Laurent.

Seeing her in the society columns had not done her justice. In person, Isabelle was arresting—tall, slender, with platinum-blonde hair styled in effortless waves and diamond studs that caught the morning glare. She wore a tailored ivory silk blouse that screamed old money and immaculate pedigree.

"Miss Laurent," I said, offering a courteous nod. "Thank you for having me."

Isabelle set down her porcelain cup, her blue eyes scanning me from head to toe in one swift, practiced appraisal. It was the look women of her station gave anything they were considering purchasing: checking the stitching, evaluating the pedigree.

"Ava Winters," she murmured, gesturing loosely toward the armchair opposite her. "Have a seat. Damian told me about your meeting yesterday. He said You were remarkably efficient."

"Efficiency ensures a seamless production," I replied, taking the seat and placing my binder on the marble table. "Congratulations on the engagement."

A strange, fleeting shadow passed over Isabelle’s immaculate face. It wasn't the glowing warmth of a bride-to-be; it was the tense satisfaction of a general who had secured a contested border.

"Thank you," Isabelle said coolly. "This wedding is the focal point of the season. Laurent Maritime and Blackwood Enterprises have been circling each other for a decade. Our union cements the shipping routes through Europe. Naturally, the press will scrutinize every detail."

"Which is why we have prepared a comprehensive security and media embargo protocol," I said, opening my binder.

"I care less about the reporters and more about the optics," Isabelle interrupted, waving a dismissive, manicured hand. "Damian’s last marriage was an unmitigated PR catastrophe. Somebody he married on a whim who turned out to be an opportunistic leech. Society hasn't forgotten the Blackwood name dragged through the gutter."

The air left my lungs in a sharp gasp.

My hands stayed perfectly flat against the leather binder, but my blood raged beneath my skin. An opportunistic leech. That was the narrative Damian had fed his circle to wash his hands of me.

"A clean slate is essential," I said, forcing my voice to remain melodic and indifferent.

"Exactly," Isabelle said, leaning forward. "Which brings me to the aesthetic. The ceremony must radiate purity, untouchable pedigree, and flawless taste. I want the twin flower girls from your portfolio. Where are they?"

She glanced past me toward the empty arched doorway.

"The models from that promotional shoot are unavailable, Miss Laurent," I lied without blinking, sliding open the page of agency headshots. "However, I’ve brought the portfolios of the top-ranked child talents in the tri-state area. All of them are trained for high-profile runway and formal events."

Isabelle didn't even glance at the photos. Her eyes narrowed into sharp, sapphire slits.

"Unavailable?" she asked, her voice dropping into a dangerous, mocking register.

"They have prior bookings for the season," I maintained, holding her gaze with steady resolve. "These alternatives are exceptional—"

"Save the corporate spin, Ms. Winters," Isabelle cut in, a cruel, triumphant smile curving her painted lips.

She reached beside her cushion, picked up a thin manila folder, and dropped it onto the marble table between us with a dull slap.

"When I hire someone, I don't just review their mood boards," Isabelle said softly. "I have my family’s private investigators vet every single detail. Especially when it comes to people entering Damian’s inner circle."

My pulse hammered against my temples like a war drum.

Isabelle tapped her long fingernail against the folder. "Those children in your promotional brochure aren't signed by an agency. There are no modeling contracts on file with the city. In fact, the permits for that park shoot were pulled under a single residential address in Brooklyn."

She leaned in, her gaze dissecting every muscle in my face.

"Those two little girls belong to you, don't they, Ava? Four-year-old twins. Lily and Rose."

The room seemed to lose all sound. The breath froze in my throat. My secret—the fortress I had spent five years reinforcing with sweat and sleepless nights—was crumbling before my eyes.

"Miss Laurent," I began, my voice tight. "My personal life has no bearing on my ability to manage your wedding."

"Oh, but it does," Isabelle purred, her eyes glittering with calculating amusement. "A single mother running a boutique firm, using her own fatherless children as free marketing. It’s pathetic, really. But the girls are undeniably gorgeous. The cameras will love them."

She tapped the table once, demanding total obedience.

"You will bring your daughters to this estate tomorrow. They will walk ahead of me down that aisle, looking like miniature angels, or I will cancel your contract, pull your license through the city board, and ensure A.V. Events never books another party in this state."

Before I could speak, heavy, measured footsteps echoed in the corridor.

The mahogany doors swung wide open.

Damian stood on the threshold, tall, imposing, and cloaked in dark authority. His coat was dusted with mist, his jaw shadowed, his steel-gray eyes instantly locking onto the two of us.

"What daughters?" Damian demanded, his voice slicing through the sun room like cold iron.