Part 1: Champagne and Cyanide

The October breeze off the Atlantic was cold, but it was nothing compared to the chill radiating from my own family.

I stood on the periphery of the manicured lawn of our Hamptons estate, clutching a flute of lukewarm champagne. Tonight was Vanessa’s night. It was always Vanessa’s night. My older sister was celebrating her engagement to Preston Miller, the son of a state Senator. It was the union of “Old Money” and “New Power,” a match made in socialite heaven.

And then there was me. Chloe. The “art restorer.” The disappointment. The one who wore a simple navy dress while everyone else dripped in designer silk and diamonds.

“Chloe, darling, try not to look so… gloomy,” my mother hissed, appearing at my elbow. Her smile was plastered on, a terrifying rictus of Botox and malice. “It’s bad luck for your sister. And tuck your hair behind your ears. You look like a drowned rat.”

“Sorry, Mom,” I murmured, instinctively touching my hair.

“Has your… friend texted?” she asked, her voice dripping with mock concern. By “friend,” she meant Julian. By the tone of her voice, she meant “your imaginary boyfriend.”

“He’s trying to make it,” I said, my voice steady despite the knot in my stomach. “He’s wrapping up a merger in Tokyo.”

Mother let out a sharp, cruel laugh. “Tokyo. Of course. Last time it was London. Before that, Dubai. Chloe, really, we all know it’s hard being the single sister, but this charade is getting embarrassing. Just tell everyone he ‘ghosted’ you. It’s more dignified than pretending a billionaire is dating you.”

She patted my cheek—a little too hard—and glided away to greet a Judge.

I looked down at my phone. No new messages. Julian had gone dark three days ago. Please, I prayed silently. Just show up. Don’t let them win.

Part 2: The Toast to the “Delusional” Sister

As twilight fell, the string quartet stopped playing. It was time for the speeches.

My father, Richard Vanderbilt, took the microphone. He stood on the raised white platform, looking every bit the patriarch.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” his voice boomed. “To my daughter Vanessa. Perfection is a high bar, but she clears it every day. And to Preston—welcome to the family, son.”

Applause rippled through the crowd. Glasses clinked.

“And,” my father paused, his eyes finding me in the shadows. A smirk played on his lips. “I think we should also raise a glass to my youngest, Chloe.”

The spotlight swung onto me. I blinded, blinking.

“Let’s drink to Chloe’s imagination,” he announced. The crowd tittered. “We all have dreams. But Chloe here has constructed a whole world. She tells us she’s engaged to a titan of industry. A man so busy, he has missed Christmas, Thanksgiving, and now, the most important night of our family’s year.”

Vanessa stepped up, grabbing the mic, draping herself over Preston. “Oh, Daddy, stop. It’s not a lie if she believes it, right?” She looked at me with pity that felt like acid. “Chloe, sweetie, look around. These are real people. Real success. Real love. You don’t need to invent a Prince Charming to feel special. We love you anyway, even if you are a little… unstable.”

“To Chloe’s imaginary fiancé!” Preston shouted, raising his glass high. “May he remain safely in her head!”

“To the fake fiancé!” the crowd echoed, laughing.

The humiliation washed over me like a tidal wave. My face burned. I felt tears pricking my eyes. I wanted to run, but my legs were frozen. They weren’t just being mean; they were eviscerating me for sport.

“I think that’s enough,” I whispered, but no one heard me over the laughter.

And then, the champagne glasses on the nearest table began to rattle.

Part 3: The Sky Falls

Thump-thump-thump-thump.

It started as a vibration in the soles of my feet. Then, a low growl. Then, a roar that drowned out the laughter.

“Is that thunder?” someone asked, looking up.

Suddenly, a gust of wind violently whipped through the party. Napkins flew into the air like white doves. Expensive floral arrangements toppled over. Ladies screamed, clutching their hats and skirts.

“What is happening?” my father yelled, shielding his eyes.

From the darkness above the ocean, blinding floodlights snapped on. Beams of pure white light cut through the night, pinning the party guests to the grass like insects.

A helicopter. But not just any helicopter.

It was a sleek, matte-black military-grade Sikorsky. It was massive, terrifying, and screaming with power. Emblazoned on the side in gold lettering was a logo that made the blood drain from Preston’s face:

BLACKWOOD INDUSTRIES.

“No way,” Preston whispered. “That’s… that’s impossible.”

The helicopter descended aggressively, ignoring the designated landing pad and hovering directly over the main lawn. The downdraft was immense. It flattened the marquee tent. It blew the catered sushi platters off the tables. It forced my father to drop the microphone, covering his ears.

The machine touched down, crushing my mother’s prize-winning hydrangeas.

Before the rotors even slowed, the side door slid open. Four men in tactical suits jumped out, forming a perimeter. They looked like Secret Service, but scarier.

Then, he stepped out.

Part 4: “Wife, I’m Sorry I’m Late”

Julian.

He was wearing a tuxedo that likely cost more than my father’s car. He looked tired, dangerous, and impossibly handsome. The wind whipped his dark hair, but he walked with a steady, predatory grace.

He didn’t look at the chaos he had caused. He didn’t look at the Senator. He didn’t look at my parents.

He walked straight toward me. The crowd parted instantly, terrified and awestruck.

I stood there, shivering, champagne sticky on my hand where the glass had spilled.

Julian stopped inches from me. His icy blue eyes softened instantly as they scanned my face. He saw the unshed tears. He saw the way I was trembling. His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering in his cheek.

He dropped to one knee.

The entire party gasped. The billionaire CEO of Blackwood Industries—a man who advised Presidents and toppled markets—was kneeling in the grass before the family failure.

He took my hand, his grip warm and solid.

“Wife,” his deep voice carried clearly through the sudden silence. “I’m sorry I’m late. airspace over Manhattan was restricted, so I had to pull some strings with the Pentagon to fly direct.“

Wife.

My mother let out a strangled squeak. “W-Wife?”

Julian stood up, towering over everyone. He pulled me against his side, his arm like a steel band around my waist. He finally turned his gaze to my family. The look in his eyes was lethal.

“Mr. and Mrs. Vanderbilt,” Julian said. His voice was calm, which made it terrifying. “I couldn’t help but overhear your toast as I was landing. You were drinking to my non-existence?”

My father was shaking. “Mr. Blackwood… Julian… sir. We… we didn’t know. Chloe never said…”

“Chloe told you,” Julian cut him off. “You chose not to listen because you couldn’t fathom that a man like me would choose a woman like her. You thought she was lying because you don’t know her worth. I do.”

Preston, fueled by stupidity and alcohol, stepped forward. “Now wait a minute! You ruined my engagement party! You can’t just land a chopper here! My father is Senator Miller, and—”

Julian didn’t even turn his head. He just held out a hand, and an assistant instantly placed a tablet in it.

“Preston Miller,” Julian read from the screen, sounding bored. “Gambling debts in Vegas totaling $400,000. An illegitimate child in Boston you’re paying hush money to. And your father… ah, yes. The Senator who just accepted a ‘lobbying donation’ from my competitor yesterday.”

Julian looked up, locking eyes with Preston. “If you say one more word, I will release this file to the press before I even take off. Your father will be in prison by morning.”

Preston turned pale and stepped back, nearly tripping over his own feet. Silence reigned.

Julian turned to Vanessa. She was clutching her hand to her chest, trying to hide her engagement ring. It looked like a toy cracker-jack prize compared to the aura radiating from Julian.

“You asked for a ring, didn’t you, Chloe?” Julian said, turning back to me. “I didn’t want to propose with the prototype, but since your sister is so concerned with reality…”

He pulled a small black box from his pocket. He opened it.

Inside sat a 12-carat Blue Diamond. It glowed with an inner fire, rare and priceless. It made Vanessa’s ring look like a piece of glass.

“Happy Anniversary, my love,” he whispered, sliding it onto my finger. “And thank you for agreeing to marry me six months ago.”

Part 5: The Departure

“Julian,” I whispered, looking at the ring, then at him. “You’re crazy.”

“Crazy about you,” he winked. Then his face hardened as he looked at the guests. “This party is over. The air here is toxic.”

“Wait! Chloe!” My mother stepped forward, tears streaming down her face—tears of greed. “Darling, please! Don’t go! We should celebrate! This is wonderful news! Julian, son, come inside for a drink!”

“I am not your son,” Julian said, his voice like absolute zero. “And Chloe is no longer your scapegoat. She is a Blackwood now. If you want to speak to her, you can contact my legal team.”

He guided me toward the helicopter.

“Where are we going?” I asked as the engine roared back to life, lifting my hair.

“Paris,” Julian shouted over the noise. “I need a crepe. And you need to be somewhere where people actually appreciate art.”

I climbed into the leather seat of the chopper. As we lifted off, I looked down through the glass window.

The party was a disaster zone. The tents were collapsed. The guests were fleeing. And my family stood in the middle of the ruined lawn, looking small, pathetic, and left behind.

I leaned back and took Julian’s hand. For the first time in my life, I didn’t look back.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” I smiled.

The helicopter banked sharp left, flying toward the skyline, leaving the wreckage of my past in the dust.