Lakewood announced itself before we even reached the entrance.
Eighteen holes of emerald green golf course stretching toward the horizon. The main building rose like a temple to old money—white columns, marble steps, valets in crisp uniforms waiting like they were part of the décor.
Inside, the foyer gleamed with Italian marble. Crystal chandeliers dripped light. Staff in white jackets drifted through the crowd holding trays of Moët & Chandon like it was water.
The floral arrangements were obscene: Juliet roses, the kind that cost more per bunch than my grocery bill.
And there at the center of it all stood Vivian.
Vera Wang. Ivory silk that caught the light with every movement. Her ring—three carats, princess cut—sparkled like it was in competition with the chandeliers.
My father stood beside her with one hand on her shoulder, proud and tall, as if Vivian’s engagement ring was a medal pinned to his chest.
Vivian saw me and her smile shifted. Subtle, but I knew it like I knew my own heartbeat.
Not warmth.
Assessment.
“Oh,” she said, loud enough for nearby guests to hear. “You actually came.”
Her eyes traveled over my dress, my pearls, my shoes. Then they landed on Ethan.
“And you brought him?”
I felt Ethan’s hand press gently to the small of my back—steady, grounding.
My father greeted me like he was checking off a duty.
“Dalia,” he said, not warmly—just acknowledging my physical existence.
Then his eyes flicked to Ethan.
A handshake that lasted exactly one second.
“And you are?”
“Ethan Caldwell,” Ethan said pleasantly.
My father was already turning away.
“Vivian,” he called, loud and proud. “Come. The Hendersons just arrived. Dr. Henderson specifically asked to meet Derek.”
And just like that, we were dismissed.
For the next twenty minutes, I watched my father parade Derek Collins through the crowd like a prized racehorse.
Derek was handsome in the way my father liked: tall, square jaw, the kind of man who looked born to wear a white coat. Orthopedic surgeon at thirty-four. Two hundred surgeries a year at Caldwell General—my father made sure everyone heard that number.
“My future son-in-law,” he announced to a cluster of former colleagues, “performs over two hundred surgeries a year at Caldwell General, one of the top orthopedic programs in the Midwest.”
Caldwell General.
The name registered somewhere in the back of my mind. I didn’t know why it felt like it mattered yet.
My mother found me near the hors d’oeuvres table.
Patricia Martin had perfected the apologetic glance. A lifetime of smoothing my father’s sharp edges had trained her well.
She squeezed my hand briefly. “I’m sorry,” her eyes said more than her mouth could. “You know how he is.”
But she didn’t speak up.
She never did.
“Your dress is lovely, dear,” she whispered, then drifted back to my father’s orbit like gravity had claimed her.
Ethan reappeared with two champagne flutes.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
I took a long sip. “Surviving.”
His gaze flicked to Derek across the room. “Which hospital did your father say he works at? Caldwell General?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Why?”
Ethan smiled. “No reason.”
He said it easily, but something about the way he asked lodged in my mind like a splinter.
Vivian’s sweetness, sharpened into a blade
Vivian found me alone a little later.
Ethan had stepped away to take a call. Something about quarterly projections he apologized for. I waved it off. It wasn’t like my family hadn’t already decided his job was small.
Vivian hooked her arm through mine in a gesture that looked affectionate from a distance.
Up close, her grip was iron.
“Little sister,” she purred. “Still teaching ABCs?”
Her voice dripped with sweetness and something sharper underneath.
“That’s sweet. Really. Someone has to do the simple jobs, right?”
I kept my expression neutral. Years of practice. “I love my work.”
“Of course you do.” She patted my arm like I was a child. “Not everyone can handle the pressure of a real career. It’s good you found something manageable.”
I didn’t respond. There was nothing to say that she would hear.
Her eyes shifted. “So your boyfriend… Ethan.” She pronounced his name like she was trying to remember something vaguely unpleasant. “What does he do again? Accounting? Healthcare?”
“Healthcare administration,” I said.
Vivian’s eyebrows rose. “Healthcare?” A small laugh. “So what—like a nurse? Like me, but without the prestige hospital?”
“Something like that,” I said evenly.
She leaned in. “It’s a shame, really. I always thought you’d end up alone. At least you found someone—even if he’s…”
She trailed off and let the silence finish the insult.
Then Derek approached, confidence rolled up in a tailored suit.
“Ladies,” he said, sliding an arm around Vivian’s waist. Devoted fiancé for the cameras. “Dalia. Good to see you.”
I forced a smile. “Congratulations.”
He barely registered it before launching into himself.
“Big changes at the hospital lately,” Derek said, sipping scotch. “Keeps me on my toes.”
Vivian beamed. “Derek’s been handling three extra surgeries a week since the restructuring.”
“The whole system got bought out a couple years back,” Derek continued. “Some big medical group swooped in. Caldwell Medical Group, I think. Four hospitals now. Major expansion.”
My stomach tightened.
Derek smirked like he loved being part of something important. “New owner’s some young guy. Never met him. He runs everything remotely. Board meetings, acquisitions, the whole operation. Probably old money playing CEO.”
Caldwell.
I looked across the room.
Ethan had finished his call. He was walking back toward me, phone sliding into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
Caldwell.
His last name was Caldwell.
A pulse of cold shot through my chest.
“You okay?” Derek asked, noticing my face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Fine,” I managed. “Just remembered something.”
Ethan reached us and his hand found its natural place at the small of my back.
“What did I miss?” he asked.
“Just work talk,” Derek said dismissively. “Hospital politics. You wouldn’t understand. It’s a medical thing.”
Ethan nodded politely. “I’m sure.”
But his eyes met mine for a fraction of a second.
And I knew.
The terrace and the truth Ethan didn’t flaunt
I pulled Ethan out to the terrace the moment I could.
The cool night air hit my flushed cheeks. String lights wound through the pergola, casting soft shadows across his face. Inside, the party kept moving—laughter, clinking glasses, the sound of people comfortable in a world that had never once made room for me.
“Caldwell Medical Group,” I said, voice low. “That’s you, isn’t it?”
Ethan didn’t deny it. Didn’t deflect.
“Yes.”
The word hung between us, simple and heavy.
“You own Derek’s hospital,” I said.
“I own four hospitals,” Ethan corrected gently. “Derek works at one of them.”
I stared at him, trying to fit this information into the Ethan I knew.
Eighteen months together. Conversations about books, about dreams, about the best pizza in Chicago. Never once about owning a medical group.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, the question sharper than I meant it to be.
Ethan’s eyes softened. “Because I wanted you to know me. Not the company. Not the hospitals. Me. The guy who stacks chairs at fundraisers.”
My throat tightened.
“I was going to tell you when the time was right,” he continued. “I didn’t want you to think I was hiding anything. I just… didn’t want to be dated for my bank account.”
“I never asked what you earned,” I said.
“Exactly.” He smiled a little. “That’s exactly why I fell for you.”
A breeze moved through the pergola. For a moment, it felt like the air itself was making space.
“I brought documentation,” Ethan said quietly. “A check—just in case your family needed to see… proof.”
“Proof of what?” I whispered.
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