Unlike Ethan’s study, my office had life in it. Fabric swatches spilled from trays. Floor plans covered the walls. Floral samples hung upside down near the window to dry. Photographs from past events filled the shelves: governors, athletes, actresses, oil families, tech billionaires, brides with seven-foot trains, and mothers who had cried over napkin colors.
People hired me because I understood beauty.
They underestimated me because they assumed beauty was gentle.
I turned on my computer and opened the master file for the Whitestone gala.
Of course I had the file.
My company was designing the event.
Ethan had insisted that I handle the contract myself.
“It’ll be good for both of us,” he said two months ago. “A Carter family contribution.”
Now I understood.
He wanted me inside the system because he thought he understood how I functioned. He believed I would never risk damaging my professional name. He believed I would choose perfection over revenge.
He was partly correct.
I would never damage my reputation.
I would engineer his destruction perfectly.
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