Chapter 1 - The Unexpected Seatmate
The plastic blue cup near my hand was sticky with apple juice, and across the small round table, five-year-old Toby was attempting to jam a purple crayon into a lukewarm chicken nugget. Great-Aunt Beatrice gave a loud, snorting snooze, her head tilting perilous far to the left.
I sat on a wooden folding chair that was three inches too short for my knees, resting my hands in my lap. My light blue dress—the one Nicholas had insisted I buy because it was "modest and non-distracting"—felt like a costume for a play I never signed up to perform in.
Through the glittering forest of white rose centerpieces and crystal decanters fifty yards away, I could see Table One.
Nicholas sat at the center of it all, beaming. Beside him was his bride, Victoria, whose father was a senior partner at a major venture capital firm. Nicholas was leaning over, holding court with three men in dark Italian suits, laughing with exaggerated enthusiasm at every joke, gesturing toward the head table as though he owned the venue.
Every few minutes, his eyes would flick toward the grand entryway, waiting for the guest of honor.
Emmett Stewart.
Emmett was the elusive, brilliant founder of Vanguard Dynamics, a multi-billion-dollar green-tech enterprise that was currently reshaping global logistics. More importantly to Nicholas, Vanguard was about to award a fifty-million-dollar supply-chain management contract. Nicholas’s firm was one of four finalists, and my brother had spent the past three months talking about Emmett as if the man were a deity walking among mortals.
Suddenly, a quiet hush rippled through the front entrance of the ballroom.
I watched Nicholas instantly snap upright, smoothing his tie and practically vibrating with anticipation.
A tall man in a charcoal double-breasted suit stepped into the hall. He was thirty-five, with sharp dark eyes, a neatly trimmed beard, and the kind of easy, unconscious posture that came from never needing to prove his place in any room. He was accompanied only by a single personal assistant, who politely declined the venue coordinator's offer to take his coat.
Emmett Stewart had arrived.
Nicholas didn't even wait for Emmett to reach the head table. He lunged out of his seat, practically shoving a waiter out of his way, and intercepted Emmett near the main aisle with an outstretched hand and an unnaturally wide smile.
From Table Nineteen, I couldn't hear the words, but I knew my brother’s pitch by heart. I saw Nicholas talking fast, nodding fervently, gesturing toward Victoria’s father, trying to guide Emmett toward the VIP seating near the front stage where a gold-lettered card marked RESERVED: MR. EMMETT STEWART sat waiting.
Emmett politely shook Nicholas’s hand, his expression polite but detached—the look of a man who dealt with dozens of hopeful ladder-climbers every day of his life.
Emmett’s eyes scanned the room, bypassing the glittering centerpieces, the violinists, and the high-society executives raising their glasses to him. His gaze swept all the way to the back of the ballroom, past the kitchen doors, until it locked directly onto Table Nineteen.
Onto me.
I froze.
Emmett didn't say a word to Nicholas. He simply excused himself with a brief nod, stepped around my stunned brother, and began walking straight down the center aisle.
Nicholas blinked, looking bewildered. He assumed Emmett was heading toward the restrooms or perhaps taking a phone call in the corridor behind the kitchen. He began following two paces behind, ready to hover.
Emmett didn't go to the corridor.
He walked directly to Table Nineteen, pulled out the tiny wooden folding chair opposite mine, and sat down.
Toby looked up from his chicken nugget. "Mister, are you gonna eat those crayons?"
"No, buddy," Emmett said smoothly, his voice deep and warm. "They’re all yours."
May you like
Then he turned to me, his dark eyes softening into a genuine, relaxed smile—a stark contrast to the guarded expression he had worn at the entrance.
"I was wondering where you were hiding, Jenna," Emmett said softly, leaning his forearms on the plastic tablecloth, completely unbothered by the sticky residue. "I searched the head table list twice. I thought you skipped."
