"Camille, sweetie, move down a chair. You're sitting next to Scotty."
My mother’s voice rang across the crystal-laden table, cutting through the low murmur of the arriving guests.
I gripped the back of the mahogany chair. "There’s plenty of room next to Uncle Arthur."
"Arthur needs his space for his elbows," my father chimed in, not looking up from his phone screen. "Sit by Scotty. It’s tradition."
"Tradition is just peer pressure from dead people," I fired back.
My father lowered his phone. "Sit. Now."
I dropped into the seat. Scotty Montgomery slid into the empty chair beside me seconds later. He smelled like expensive cologne and unearned arrogance.
"Don't look so thrilled, Millie," Scotty muttered, adjusting his platinum cufflinks.
"Don't call me that," I snapped, keeping my eyes fixed on the empty china plate.
"Fine. Camille." He dragged out the syllables. "Did you dress in the dark, or is beige just your power color now?"
"It's champagne," I corrected. "And unlike you, I don't need a neon sign to get attention."
"No, you just radiate misery. It draws a crowd."
Scotty turned his back to me immediately. He leaned toward his cousin, Elena, who sat on his other side.
"So, Elena, tell me about the trip to Milan," he said, his voice carrying over the clatter of silverware. "Did you manage to snag that reservation at the place I told you about?"
Elena giggled, twirling a piece of pasta. "We did! The chef actually came out to our table, Scotty. It was amazing."
"I knew he would. I sent him a bottle of the '09 vintage last month. You have to know how to play the game, El."
I picked up my fork and stabbed a cherry tomato. The pop of the skin was louder than I intended.
Scotty didn't even glance my way. He laughed at something Elena said, a loud, booming sound that scraped against my eardrums.
"And the skiing?" he asked her. "Don't tell me you chickened out on the black diamond slopes again."
"I did not! I tackled the northern ridge."
I sliced my steak. The knife screeched against the porcelain.
My mother shot me a warning glare from across the table. I gave her a flat, humorless smile and chewed my food.
"Scotty," my mother called out, interrupting his monologue about the Italian Alps. "How are the preparations for the firm's merger going?"
Scotty shifted in his seat, finally facing forward. "Perfectly, Mrs. Gallagher. My father and I are finalizing the contracts this week."
"Wonderful," she beamed. "Camille was just saying how interested she is in the corporate restructuring."
I nearly choked on my water. "I said no such thing."
Scotty leaned close. His knee brushed mine under the table. I yanked my leg away.
"She prefers to stay out of the real work, don't you, Camille?" he whispered, just low enough for only me to hear.
"I prefer to stay out of your work," I shot back. "There's a difference."
He smirked, picking up his wine glass. "Sure there is. Running a charity gala is so much harder than managing a billion-dollar acquisition."
"I raised two million dollars last quarter. What did you do? Fire fifty people to pad your bonus?"
His jaw tightened. "I streamlined redundancies."
"You're a parasite in a tailored suit."
"And you're a spoiled brat playing house."
Mr. Montgomery tapped his spoon against his crystal goblet. The ringing silenced the chatter instantly.
"If I could have everyone's attention," he announced, rising to his feet. He raised his glass high. "Twenty-five years ago, the Gallaghers and the Montgomerys broke bread at this very table. We built an empire together."
My father stood up, mirroring the gesture. "Through thick and thin. To family, and to the future."
"To the future!" the table echoed.
"Scotty, Camille," Mr. Montgomery prompted, gesturing toward us. "Stand up. A special toast to the two of you. The next generation."
Scotty pushed his chair back and stood. He turned to me, the fake charm melting off his face in an instant.
I grabbed my champagne flute and got to my feet.
We leaned in. The gap between us closed, leaving nowhere to hide from the sheer hostility radiating from his dark eyes.
"Cheers, partner," he murmured, his tone laced with venom.
"Drink up, Montgomery," I whispered back.
Our glasses met. *Clink.*
His gaze held mine. No warmth. No forced politeness. Just raw, unfiltered loathing. I held his stare until he finally broke it to take a sip. Instead of looking away, I gave a short, unexpected laugh.
He frowned, lowering his glass. "What?"
"Nothing," I said, sitting back down. "Just picturing you choking on an olive."
He didn't speak to me for the rest of the meal.
The evening dragged to a close. Goodbyes were exchanged in the grand foyer.
"We'll see you Sunday for brunch, Scotty," my mother said, kissing his cheek.
"Looking forward to it," he lied smoothly, offering her a pristine smile.
I walked out the front doors without a backward glance. The night air was freezing, biting through my thin dress. I practically sprinted to our waiting town car and threw myself into the backseat.
My parents climbed in a minute later. The driver pulled away from the Montgomery estate, the heavy iron gates closing behind us.
"Well, that was a lovely evening," my mother sighed, slipping off her pumps.
I crossed my arms over my chest. "Why do I have to sit next to him? Every single time."
"Because you two are the future of the partnership," my father stated, loosening his tie.
"He's an arrogant jerk. He spent the entire dinner bragging to Elena about Milan, and then insulted my charity work."
"He was making conversation, Camille," my mother corrected. "Something you failed to do. You sat there with a scowl for two hours."
"I wasn't scowling. I was surviving."
"You need to get along with him," my father said, his voice dropping an octave. "It's not just about dinners anymore."
I uncrossed my arms. The leather seat suddenly felt too small. "What does that mean?"
My parents exchanged a look. The kind of look that always preceded a disaster.
"We didn't want to tell you in front of the others," my mother started, her tone far too gentle.
"Tell me what?" I demanded.
My father turned to face me. "The merger requires a show of absolute unity. To the board, and to the shareholders."
"I still don't understand."
"Scotty's father and I agreed," he said flatly. "You and Scotty are getting married."
I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. "Excuse me?"
"The announcement goes out on Monday. You'll move into his penthouse by the end of the week."
"Move in with him? Are you out of your minds?"
"Keep your voice down," my father warned, glancing at the privacy partition separating us from the driver. "It's a strategic alliance."
"I am not a corporate asset! I'm your daughter."
"Which is exactly why you will do this for the family," my mother added softly. "It's just a piece of paper, Camille. Play the part."
"I won't do it."
"You will," my father said, his tone leaving no room for debate. "Or I'll cut funding to every single one of your charity foundations tomorrow morning."
The threat hung in the stale air of the car. I looked out the window, watching the streetlights blur into streaks of yellow. My foundations were everything to me. He knew exactly where to strike.
"You're selling me to the Montgomerys," I whispered.
"We are securing your future," my father replied.
I pressed my forehead against the cold glass. Monday. I had until Monday before my entire life belonged to Scotty Montgomery.
