The night of the party, I stood in front of my tiny closet for almost an hour.
The old Emma—the one who’d been dressed by stylists and lent jewelry by luxury brands—wanted to reach for the designer gown still zipped in a garment bag at the back. A soft couture number my father had insisted I keep “just in case.”
The new Emma, the one who’d learned how to live on a normal salary, flipped through hangers from regular stores.
I chose a pale yellow dress.
Simple. Modest. Pretty.
Definitely not designer.
No brand logo. No complicated beading. Just soft fabric, a flattering cut, and the kind of color that made my skin look a little warmer.
No necklace. No bracelets. Just small stud earrings.
I did my own hair in loose waves and kept my makeup natural.
When I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized the girl staring back.
She didn’t look like a billionaire’s daughter.
She looked like a normal 27-year-old woman trying her best.
Exactly what I wanted.
Brandon picked me up at seven.
He looked handsome in his tailored suit, hair neatly styled, cologne subtle but expensive.
When he saw me, something flickered across his face.
A flash of something sharp—disappointment? Worry?—before his features smoothed into a smile.
“You look beautiful,” he said, kissing my cheek.
But his eyes darted down to my dress, lingered for half a second, then slid away.
The drive to the hotel was filled with his nervous chatter.
“Mom has this thing about first impressions,” he said. “And Dad is very… traditional. Just don’t take anything he says personally. Natasha can be a bit harsh, but she’s just joking. Jessica—well, she’s Jessica.”
Each sentence was another little wave hitting the shoreline of my calm.
But I told myself: This is the test. You want to see their real faces? This is how.
So I smiled and squeezed his hand and watched the city lights blur past the window.
Walking Into the Lion’s Den
The Grand View Hotel lived up to its name.
The lobby was all marble and gold and crystal. The kind of place where your footsteps echo and staff speak in whispers. The kind of place I’d grown up in—and had deliberately avoided for two years.
We took the elevator up to the ballroom level, Brandon’s hand a little clammy in mine.
The doors opened onto a spectacle.
Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling. Silk drapes cascaded down the walls. Tables were covered in white linen, gold accents, and centerpieces that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget.
There were easily 200 people there.
Everyone sparkled.
Women in gowns that screamed couture—the kind of dresses where you could name the designer from across the room. Jewelry that caught the light and threw it back in sharp, expensive sparks.
Men in suits tailored within an inch of their lives. Watches that could buy a car. Shoes polished enough to use as mirrors.
And then there was me.
In my pale yellow department-store dress.
The stares started immediately.
Quick once-overs. Slow, lingering glances. Some people didn’t bother to hide their reactions.
Expressions moved in a visible wave across faces:
Curiosity.
Judgment.
Dismissal.
A few whispered behind their hands. A few lifted their phones, already snapping discreet photos.
Brandon’s hand tightened around mine.
But not in a reassuring way.
More like he was the one who needed reassurance.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “They’ll love you once they get to know you.”
I hoped he was right.
Deep down, a small voice whispered that he was lying to himself, not to me.
Meeting the Queen
I saw her before Brandon said her name.
Clarissa Hayes.
She stood near the center of the room, holding court like she owned not just the ballroom, but the hotel, the city, the world.
Her gown was deep purple, the kind of shade that said “royalty” without needing a crown.
Diamonds dripped from her neck and wrists. Real ones. Heavy enough that most people would need a chiropractor afterward.
Her hair was perfect. Her makeup flawless. Her posture radiated practiced grace and casual arrogance.
When she saw Brandon, her smile lit up like a marquee sign.
When she saw me, the sign went dark.
Her expression shifted so fast it was almost funny.
Almost.
She walked toward us, heels clicking on marble, each step landing with the finality of a gavel.
“Brandon, darling,” she said, kissing his cheek, eyes never leaving my face. “And who is this?”
The way she said this made it pretty clear she wasn’t asking for my name.
She was asking what category of mistake I was.
“Mom, this is Emma,” Brandon said. “My girlfriend. Emma, this is my mother, Clarissa.”
I extended my hand, forcing myself to smile warmly.
“It’s so wonderful to finally meet you, Mrs. Hayes,” I said. “Brandon has told me so much about you.”
She looked at my outstretched hand like I’d offered her a dirty rag.
She didn’t take it.
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