Chapter 10

Ophelia POV

Three days after Finnegan and I signed the prenuptial agreement, Sterling’s office alerted both families that work on the public announcement had started.

Charles’s longtime attorney, Richard Holloway, showed up at four-thirty on Tuesday. He’d managed countless Blake family affairs over the years, enough to speak on Charles’s behalf whenever needed.

For the engagement, he had been appointed our liaison with the Sterling office, which meant he could deliver their decisions.

Richard sat with his jacket buttoned and his hands folded neatly in front of him. He described the completed agreement as an encouraging development, then moved directly to the engagement reception.

"The Sterling circle puts a lot of stock in events like this," he said in a polite, accommodating tone. "Mr. Sterling isn’t seeking a private deal. He plans to formalize this engagement publicly, in the tradition his family upholds."

Diana sat across from me with both hands around a cup of tea she had not touched. "Which is generous," she said.

Richard gave her a small nod before returning his attention to me. "You should confirm your availability with Mr. Sterling promptly."

"I understand," I said. My voice sounded level, although my shoulders had tightened beneath my sweater.

Diana's fingers pressed more firmly into the porcelain. "You wouldn't want him to think we're dragging our feet. Not after everything he's done."

I said I would call him, which satisfied them both.

Richard rose, smoothed a hand over his jacket, and wished me a pleasant evening before leaving with calm assurance.

I stayed on my feet long after the door clicked shut. Sharp anger coiled tight in my chest, before melting into that old, helpless truth: none of this was ever mine to decide.

The next morning, I went to the center early and took the longer route past Rook's kennel before my shift.

I stopped several feet from the fence and watched him move along the back of the run, his shoulders low and his attention divided between me and the corridor behind me.

I’d spent the entire drive rehearsing exactly what I wanted to say to Finnegan, but my carefully structured words fell apart the second I gripped my phone.

At the end of the corridor, I called him, and he answered on the second ring.

"Charles's attorney came to the house yesterday," I said. "He told me about the engagement reception."

A brief silence followed. "He shouldn’t have framed this like the Blakes were the ones spearheading the event."

"He didn't, exactly."

"What did he ask you to do?"

I glanced back toward Rook's run. He had stopped pacing, although he remained in the rear corner with his body angled away from me. "Confirm that I'll appear beside you."

Finnegan was quiet for another moment. "Will you?"

His straightforward question rattled me far more than a blunt order ever could. Richard and Diana had spelled out exactly what would happen if I hesitated, but Finnegan simply waited. He didn’t rush to fill the quiet, and he never pretended the stakes weren’t real.

"Yes," I said. "I'll be there."

"Okay, the reception is scheduled for Saturday evening. Invitations will be released today, and my office will send you the full schedule."

"All right."

"It will be larger than the dinner your family may be expecting."

I pressed my thumb against the edge of my phone. "How large?"

"Approximately three hundred guests. Family, business associates, foundation trustees, and people whose presence will make the announcement unambiguous."

Three hundred guests. It didn’t feel like an intimate reception—it felt like facing an entire crowd of judgmental strangers.

I imagined their faces turning toward me at once and shifted my feet against the concrete floor, reminding my station.

"The Blake family will submit its names to my office," Finnegan continued. "They'll receive a limited allocation. You won't be responsible for coordinating the event."

The word allocation made the difference between our families feel measurable.

The Sterlings could fill a ballroom from their own circle, while the Blakes would be allowed to occupy a designated portion of it.

"A car will collect you at six," he said. "If that creates a problem, tell Thomas, and he'll adjust it."

"It won't." His efficiency still irritated me, but at least he was honest about what had already been decided.

Richard had disguised an order as a request, while Finnegan told me what the evening required and left room only where he could actually offer it. "I'll be ready."

When the call ended, I stood with the phone in my hand until its screen went dark. On my way back, I passed Rook's kennel again and found him nearer the fence.

I slowed for a step, acknowledged the distance he had chosen, and kept moving.

By Saturday evening, I was wearing the deep burgundy gown Diana had selected, with its structured shoulders, fitted waist, and neckline poised at the border between formal and daring.

The gown was stunning, but it never felt like something I’d chosen to wear. It felt like a calculated statement Diana forced my body to carry for the Blake name.

The reception occupied the grand ballroom of a Sterling property overlooking the harbor, where arched windows reflected tiered chandeliers against the winter-dark water.

White flowers rose above tables laid with old silver, a string ensemble played from the gallery, and uniformed staff moved through the crowd with the unhurried coordination of people accustomed to serving hundreds without allowing their work to show.

The Blake guests filled only a small portion of the room.

Everywhere else, I saw faces from newspapers, museum boards, and photographs attached to articles I had only half read, along with strangers.

Finnegan met me at the ballroom entrance. His gaze passed over my face and shoulders, lingering just long enough to make me conscious of the close fit of the gown, before he offered me his arm.

The gesture belonged to the occasion, and so did my acceptance. Even so, when I placed my hand against his sleeve, the solid warmth beneath the fabric steadied me more than I wanted it to.

He led me into the ballroom, and conversations softened as we passed.

Guests turned, sized me up silently, and smiled with hollow, varying sincerity. Their eyes drifted slowly from my face to my gown, from my hand resting on Finnegan’s arm to the small cluster of Blakes in the far corner.

I had expected scrutiny to feel sharp, but it was smoother than that.

Questions arrived wrapped in compliments: where had I studied, how had we met, and whether I found the harbor beautiful at this time of year.

No one mentioned the Blake debt or the Sterling investment.

Finnegan stayed beside me without answering for me or rescuing me from pauses.

His presence shaped each conversation, however; people chose their words more carefully under his attention, and I understood that whatever they thought of me, they did not want him to hear them say it plainly.

The ballroom briefly became only a beautiful room full of strangers.

Then Charles stood to offer the Blake family's toast.

Richard remained seated beside him, the pale edge of his notes visible near one hand, and I understood who had made certain Charles's gratitude would arrive in acceptable language.

My father thanked the Sterlings for their hospitality and spoke of two families finding common ground.

He kept his tone measured and polished, but I knew him too well to miss the quiet satisfaction underneath. For once, every powerful person in the room had no choice but to focus on him.

"The Blake family," he said, "has demonstrated, even through a period of considerable operational adjustment, a commitment to its partnerships that speaks to its character. Ophelia's engagement is perhaps the clearest expression of that commitment—a gesture of good faith offered at considerable personal cost—and we trust the Sterling family will recognize the sincerity behind it."

He lifted his glass, and hundreds of people followed. I raised mine because Finnegan's guests were watching.

In the pause before the glasses lowered, a voice behind me said, "So the debt isn't cleared yet."

Another replied that it had been folded into the arrangement, and a third voice, quieter and almost bored, began, "At that rate, she's—" before stopping, which was worse than hearing the final word.

My body went still before I decided anything.

I held my glass perfectly steady at the correct height as candlelight glided across its rim. My face locked into that practiced, neutral mask I’d mastered years ago—always decorative, always grateful, always oblivious on command.

Beside me, Finnegan did not speak or make a movement that would turn three murmured comments into the focus of the ballroom.

The voices faded into the larger noise, but their meaning remained after Richard's polished language had fallen away: I had not entered the room as Finnegan's equal; I had been presented to it as the visible price of an arrangement.

I set my glass down, and the crystal made a clean sound against the linen. When I turned toward the doors, a hand closed around my arm, steady and unhurried.