Chapter 1 The Guest of Honor

# Chapter 1: The Guest of Honor

I never wanted to come back to this house. The sprawling mansion with its manicured gardens and pristine white columns had stopped feeling like home the day my mother died and Celeste moved in. Yet here I was, my taxi pulling up the curved driveway as the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the lawn.

Father's message had been brief: "Delilah, come home. Celeste's birthday celebration. Non-negotiable." Three years of carefully constructed independence in New York crumbled with one text. I smoothed down my black dress—too simple for Celeste's taste, which was precisely why I chose it—and took a deep breath.

The door opened before I could knock. James, our longtime butler, greeted me with a rare smile.

"Miss Delilah, welcome home."

"Is it still home, James?" I whispered as he took my small suitcase.

He responded with a diplomatic silence that spoke volumes. As I stepped into the marble foyer, memories washed over me—running down these halls as a child, my mother's laughter echoing off the walls. Now the house smelled of Celeste's signature perfume, something expensive and cloying.

"Delilah!" My father appeared at the top of the grand staircase, arms outstretched. Robert Montgomery, steel industry titan and perpetual absentee father, now beaming as though we'd been separated for days, not years. "You've finally arrived."

I accepted his embrace, stiff and formal. "You didn't give me much choice."

"Nonsense. Family gatherings shouldn't require arm-twisting." He held me at arm's length. "You look thin."

"Journalism doesn't pay like steel, Father."

His smile faltered. "Well, you're here now. Celeste has been asking for you all day. She has some exciting news."

I doubted anything involving my stepmother could be classified as "exciting" for me, but I nodded politely. "I should freshen up before the party."

"Of course. Your old room is ready."

My old room. The one shrine to my existence that Celeste hadn't redecorated. I climbed the stairs, trailing my fingers along the banister, wondering what drama awaited me tonight.

---

The party was in full swing by eight o'clock. The garden had been transformed into a wonderland of twinkling lights and white orchids. Waiters glided between clusters of New York's elite, carrying champagne flutes on silver trays. I nursed my second glass, standing alone near a fountain as I watched Celeste hold court.

At forty-three, my stepmother was breathtaking in a way that made other women simultaneously envious and insecure. Tonight she wore a cream-colored gown that emphasized her perfect figure, her blonde hair swept into an elegant updo. She laughed at something someone said, the sound musical and practiced.

"You look like you'd rather be anywhere else," a voice said beside me.

I turned to find Claire, my childhood friend and the only reason these gatherings were ever bearable. She handed me a fresh glass of champagne.

"Is it that obvious?" I asked.

"Only to someone who's known you since you ate glue in kindergarten." She clinked her glass against mine. "So, did you meet him yet?"

"Meet who?"

Claire's eyebrows shot up. "You don't know? Oh, this is delicious. Celeste has been keeping a secret boyfriend for months. Tonight's the big reveal."

I rolled my eyes. "Let me guess—another hedge fund manager or plastic surgeon?"

"No details leaked, which is unusual for Celeste. She normally parades her conquests around like show ponies."

I was about to respond when the music softened and my father clinked a spoon against his crystal glass. The crowd quieted, turning toward the center of the garden where Celeste stood, radiant under strategic lighting.

"Thank you all for coming to celebrate with me tonight," she began, her voice carrying across the garden. "Having my closest friends and family here means everything." Her eyes found mine for a brief, sharp moment before moving on. "Especially because tonight isn't just about my birthday. It's about new beginnings."

She extended her hand toward the crowd, and the sea of guests parted. A tall figure moved forward to join her, and my heart stopped.

Dark hair, cut perfectly to frame sharp cheekbones. A tailored suit that couldn't hide the athletic build beneath. And eyes—deep green eyes that had looked into mine just yesterday as we'd reached the top of the Ferris wheel, the moment before he'd kissed me.

The man I'd spent last night with. The stranger who'd made me laugh for the first time in months, who'd listened to my dreams under the stars, whose hotel room I'd slipped out of at dawn.

"I'd like to introduce you all to Griffin Blake," Celeste announced, beaming. "My fiancé."

The champagne glass slipped from my fingers, shattering on the stone patio. A few heads turned, but most were focused on the couple. I couldn't breathe. This couldn't be happening.

Griffin's gaze found mine across the garden, recognition flickering in those green depths. But his face remained impassive, the perfect picture of a man in love with his fiancée—not the passionate stranger who'd whispered my name hours earlier.

"Griffin has made me happier than I ever thought possible," Celeste continued, either oblivious to or ignoring my distress. "And soon, he'll officially be part of our family."

My father joined them, clapping Griffin on the back with genuine affection. "I couldn't have chosen a better man for my wife," he said, and the crowd laughed appreciatively at the joke. "Delilah, come meet your future brother-in-law."

I felt Claire's concerned touch on my arm, but I shook her off. Moving forward felt like wading through concrete, each step bringing me closer to a nightmare I couldn't escape. When I reached them, my father pulled me into their circle, his hand firm on my shoulder.

"Griffin, this is my daughter, Delilah," my father said proudly.

Up close, I could smell his cologne—the same scent that had been on my skin this morning. Griffin extended his hand, his expression revealing nothing.

"Delilah," he said, my name rolling off his tongue with practiced unfamiliarity. "Your mother has told me so much about you."

Stepmother. The word stuck in my throat. I didn't take his hand.

Celeste's smile tightened. "Delilah works for some online magazine in the city. Very... progressive."

"It's The Atlantic," I corrected automatically, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.

Griffin nodded, his eyes holding mine for a beat too long. "Impressive publication."

Celeste wrapped her arm possessively around Griffin's, diamonds glittering on her fingers. "Darling, we should greet the Vandermeres. They came all the way from Palm Beach."

Before they turned away, Griffin looked at me once more, something unreadable in his expression. Then, with perfect composure, he took Celeste's hand and raised it to his lips.

"I'll be sure to get to know Delilah better," he said, his voice carrying just enough for nearby guests to hear. "After all, I'll be taking care of you both now."

The words, so benign on the surface, sent a chill through me. As they moved away, Celeste's triumphant laugh floating back to me, I knew with sudden clarity that nothing about this was accidental. The question was: which one of them had orchestrated this cruel coincidence?

Claire appeared at my elbow, her expression concerned. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Worse," I murmured, watching Griffin charm an elderly couple across the garden. "I've seen tomorrow, and it's a disaster."