The gala made headlines by morning.
I was having breakfast with my parents when Alex forwarded me the Manhattan Society article: "Sinclair Heiress Returns: Olivia Sinclair Makes Waves at Metropolitan Gala with Tech Titan Damien Cross."
The photos were everywhere. Damien and me on the red carpet, at dinner with Eleanor Pemberton, dancing. In every shot, I looked poised, elegant, completely in control.
And in the background of three photos, barely visible: Marcus Chen, watching.
"The comments are savage," Alex said, scrolling through his phone. "Everyone's comparing your looks from three years ago to now. They're calling Marcus an idiot."
"Alexander," my mother chided, but she was smiling into her coffee.
My phone buzzed. A text from Damien: Pemberton's office called. Meeting scheduled for Tuesday. Well done, partner.
"Something amusing?" my father asked.
"Just business."
"Just business that's making you smile like that?" Alex leaned over, trying to see my phone. I pulled it away.
"Don't you have an international division to run? From Hong Kong?"
"I'm working remotely this week. Someone has to make sure Cross doesn't break your heart."
"He's not going to break my heart. It's a business arrangement." "That's what they all say," Alex muttered.
My phone rang. Unknown number. I excused myself and answered in the hallway.
"Olivia." Marcus's voice was strained. "We need to talk."
I was silent for a moment, genuinely surprised he'd called. "I don't think we have anything to discuss."
"Please. Just... coffee? An hour of your time. I need to understand what's happening." "What's happening is that I'm living my life. The one I had before I met you."
"You were never just some gallery consultant, were you?" His voice was bitter now. "This whole time, you were—"
"Exactly who I told you I was. You just never asked the right questions, Marcus. You never wondered why I didn't need your money, why I didn't care about your connections, why I was content with so little." I kept my voice even. "I was testing whether someone could love me for myself. You failed
that test.
"That's not fair."
"Life rarely is. Goodbye, Marcus."
I hung up before he could respond. When I returned to the breakfast table, three pairs of eyes studied me.
"He called," my mother said. It wasn't a question.
"He wanted to talk."
"And?"
"And I have better things to do." I picked up my coffee. "Speaking of which, I need to prepare for the Pemberton meeting. Dad, can you send me everything we have on their current holdings and financial structure?"
"Already in your inbox." He smiled approvingly. "Now that's my daughter."
Tuesday morning, I met Damien in the lobby of the Pemberton Hotel flagship on Fifth Avenue. The building was a landmark—art deco elegance preserved from the 1920s, updated with modern luxury. Doormen in pristine uniforms, marble floors, crystal chandeliers that probably cost more than most houses.
Damien was early, examining a sculpture in the lobby with genuine interest. He'd dressed for the meeting in a charcoal suit that probably cost ten thousand dollars but made him look like he'd earned every penny.
"Ready?" I asked.
He turned, his expression shifting from thoughtful to focused. "Question: do we play this as partners or as you vouching for me?""Partners. Eleanor respects equals, not supplicants. We present as two people with complementary expertise who can bring fresh vision to Pemberton's legacy."
"Smart." He offered his arm. "Shall we?"
Eleanor's office was on the top floor, corner suite with views of Central Park. She sat behind an antique desk that had probably belonged to Rockefeller at some point, reading glasses perched on her nose as she reviewed documents."Olivia. Mr. Cross. Punctual. I appreciate that." She gestured to the seating area. "Sit. Tell me why I should trust you with my family's legacy.
For the next hour, Damien presented his vision. Not a hostile takeover or a corporate raid, but a partnership. CrossTech's technological infrastructure and modern marketing expertise, combined with Pemberton's unmatched reputation and historic properties. He showed financial projections, renovation concepts that honored original architecture
while updating amenities, and a plan to expand into emerging luxury markets without diluting the brand.
I supplemented with market analysis, competitive research, and testimonials from family friends who'd worked with Sinclair Global. We tag-teamed seamlessly, anticipating each other's points, building on each other's arguments.
Eleanor listened without interrupting, making occasional notes.
Finally, she set down her pen.
"Impressive. You've done your
homework." She looked at Damien. "But I'm not interested in selling, Mr. Cross. Pemberton Hotels has been in my family for five generations. My great-great-grandfather built the first property with his own hands."
I felt Damien tense beside me, but he kept his expression neutral.
"However," Eleanor continued, "I am interested in a partnership. Fifty-fifty ownership, joint decision-making on all major initiatives, and you'll report to our board quarterly. The Pemberton name stays prominent. These are non-negotiable terms."
I watched Damien calculate. He'd wanted full acquisition, full control. This was offering him half—and requiring him to answer to a board of old money families who'd question every decision.
"I'll need operational control," he said finally. "I can't implement changes effectively if every decision requires board approval."
"You'll have operational control on projects under fifty million. Anything larger comes to the board."
"Seventy-five million." "Sixty."
"Done." Damien extended his hand. "But I want Olivia on the board. She understands both worlds—she bridges the gap we need."
Eleanor's eyes shifted to me, appraising. "Olivia?"
I hadn't expected this. The meeting was supposed to be an introduction, not an actual negotiation. "I'm honored, but I should mention I'm VP of Strategic Acquisitions at Sinclair Global. There might be conflicts of interest."
"Then you'll recuse yourself when appropriate." Eleanor waved this away. "I want someone who can tell me when Damien's being too aggressive and tell Damien when we're being too traditional. You're the only person in this room both sides trust. Do you want the position?"
It was a good opportunity. A board seat at Pemberton would give me influence in an industry Sinclair Global didn't currently dominate. It would also mean working closely with Damien beyond our arrangement.
"Yes," I said. "I accept."
"Excellent." Eleanor stood, indicating the meeting was over. "My lawyers will draw up the partnership agreements. Olivia, I'm having lunch with your mother next week—I'll tell her she's raised a formidable businesswoman."
As we left the building, Damien was quiet, processing.
"You could have said no," he said finally. "To the board seat."
"So could you. To the partnership terms."
"I wanted full control."
"Control is overrated. Partnership means you have allies, not just subordinates." I stopped on the sidewalk, facing him. "Are you upset I'll be on the board?"
"No." He smiled then, genuine and warm. "I'm impressed. You negotiated yourself a board seat at a Fortune 500 company in the middle of someone else's deal."
"I learned from the best." My phone buzzed. "That's my assistant. I need to get back to the office."
"Olivia." He caught my hand before I
could leave. "Thank you. For the introduction, the support, all of it. This partnership wouldn't exist without you."
"You would have found another way in eventually."
"Maybe. But this way is better." He squeezed my hand once before releasing it. "Dinner this week? To celebrate?"
"Damien—"
"As friends. Business partners. Whatever you're comfortable with."
I should have said no. Our arrangement was complete. The gala was over, the deal was done. Getting more involved with Damien Cross was a complication I didn't need.
"Thursday," I heard myself say. "Seven o'clock."
His smile was dangerous. "It's a date. Or not a date. Whatever we're calling it."
As I walked away, I felt his eyes on me, and I had the distinct feeling I'd just made things significantly more complicated.
My phone rang. Sophia. "Where have you been?" she demanded. "I've been calling for days. You disappeared after divorce papers, ignored my texts, and then suddenly you're all over the society pages looking like a goddess with some tech billionaire who looks like he could murder someone and get away with it."
"That's... surprisingly accurate, actually."
"Brunch. Now. I need details."
"I'm working."
"Olivia Sinclair, you get your designer-clad ass to Balthazar in the next thirty minutes or I'm calling your mother."
"That's a low blow."
"I'm serious. Move."
Forty minutes later, I slid into the booth across from Sophia Martinez, my best friend since boarding school. She was a fashion editor at Vogue, which meant she had opinions on everything I was wearing and wasn't afraid to share them.
"First," she said, "that Armani is perfect. Second, you look happy. Third, who the hell is Damien Cross and are you sleeping with him?"
"No to the last question. He's a business partner."
"Uh-huh. And I'm the Queen of England." She sipped her mimosa. "Liv, I've known you for fifteen years. I know your 'business face' and your 'I'm attracted to this person' face. At the gala, you had the second one."
"I did not."
"You did. It was all over the photos. There's this one shot where he's leaning down to whisper something and you're smiling and looking at
him like—"
"Sophia."
"—like he's not just some business arrangement." She set down her glass. "Look, I'm glad you're done with Marcus. He was always wrong for you. But jumping into something with another powerful man right after your divorce..."
"I'm not jumping into anything. We have a business arrangement. That's all."
"That's all right now. But Liv, the way he looked at you in those photos? That's not business. That's
interest. Real interest."
"He's not interested in me romantically. He said so explicitly."
"Men lie. Especially men like that." She leaned forward. "I'm not saying don't see where it goes. I'm saying be careful. You just got your heart handed to you by one man who didn't appreciate you. Don't let another one do the same thing."
"Damien is nothing like Marcus."
"Exactly. Which might be worse. Marcus was safe, predictable. This guy?" She pulled up a photo on her phone—Damien at some tech
conference, looking intense and commanding. "This guy is dangerous. The kind of dangerous that makes smart women do stupid things."
I wanted to argue, but part of me knew she was right. Damien Cross was complicated in ways Marcus had never been. Marcus had been a mistake of the heart. Damien could be a mistake of judgment.
"I'm having dinner with him Thursday," I admitted.
"As business partners?"
"That's what we're calling it." Sophia groaned. "You're already in trouble, aren't you?"
"I'm not in trouble. I'm being strategic."
"Strategic. Right. Is that what we're calling chemistry now?"
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: This is Vanessa Hartley. Can we talk? Not about Marcus. About you.
I showed Sophia.
"Oh, this should be interesting," she said. "Are you going to meet her?"
"I don't know. What could she possibly want to talk about?"
"Maybe she feels guilty. Maybe Marcus is driving her crazy talking about you. Maybe she wants fashion advice." Sophia shrugged. "Only one way to find out."
I stared at the message. The old Olivia would have ignored it, avoided confrontation. But I wasn't the old Olivia anymore.
Coffee. Tomorrow. 10am. You pick the place.
Her response was immediate: Thank you. There's a cafe on Madison and 73rd. Margot's. "You're really doing this?" Sophia asked.
"Why not? I'm curious what Marcus's fiancée could possibly want to discuss with his ex-wife."
"Maybe she wants to warn you he's going to try to get you back."
I laughed. "He can try all he wants. That door is closed."
But even as I said it, I wondered if that was entirely true. Not because I wanted Marcus back—I didn't. But because for three years, I'd built my life around him. Even now, free of him, I was still reacting to him,
making choices based on what he'd see, what he'd think.
When would I stop defining myself in relation to Marcus Chen and start defining myself purely on my own terms?
"Earth to Olivia," Sophia waved her hand. "Where'd you go?"
"Just thinking."
"About Damien Cross?"
"About who I want to be now. The divorce isn't just about ending my marriage. It's about starting over. Really starting over."
Sophia reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "Then start over, babe. But maybe try to avoid falling for complicated billionaires while you do it?"
"I'll add it to my to-do list."
"Right below 'drink more water' and above 'save the world,' I'm guessing."
Despite everything, I laughed. It felt good.
My phone buzzed again. Damien: Just confirmed the partnership deal is moving forward. Eleanor's lawyers are drawing up papers.
Thank you again, partner.
Partner. The word felt weighted with possibility.
Sophia saw my expression and sighed. "You're hopeless."
"Probably."
"Just promise me one thing: whatever happens with Cross, don't lose yourself again. Not for him, not for anyone."
"I won't," I said firmly. "Never again."
And I meant it.
But the universe, I was about to
learn, had other plans.