Chapter 4 The gathering
The air inside Elena's room was filled with soft instrumental music from the Bluetooth speaker by her window. The setting sun was casting golden slants through the sheer curtains, bouncing off the polished floor and subtle gold accents of her dressing area. Everything about the room screamed elegance—light rose-gold hues, soft ivory fabrics, and a fragrance of vanilla and white amber from the lit scented candle beside her mirror.
But Elena sat motionless for a moment at her vanity, brushing through her long, freshly washed hair as thoughts tumbled through her mind. A dinner. With him. With a stranger. A whole man she hadn't even met yet, and tonight she’d be sitting across from him as their families discussed marriage.
What century are we in again?
She blew out a sigh and pushed herself up, heading to the walk-in closet where two outfits had been carefully prepped by her stylist the night before—because, as her mother said, “Presentation is part of the negotiation.”
She finally settled on the dress.
An emerald green floor-length gown made of luxurious silk satin. It hugged her body, gliding over every curve with a grace that didn’t scream, but whispered wealth. The neckline was a structured sweetheart cut, highlighting her collarbones and the dainty silver necklace that shimmered beneath the soft light. The back dipped low, just enough to be elegant but a little daring. The gown cinched at the waist, where a thin belt of silver crystals added a touch of sparkle, before flowing smoothly to the floor.
She stepped into nude Louboutin stilettos, their red soles clicking gently against the floor as she moved back to her vanity. Her hair was styled into soft waves, pulled loosely to one side and pinned with a silver, leaf-shaped clip studded with tiny pearls. Her makeup was flawless: warm brown eyeshadow blended with a golden shimmer, sharp eyeliner wings, a nude blush that matched her natural glow, and a rich wine-colored lipstick that brought the whole look together.
As she reached for her perfume—Maison Francis Kurkdjian Baccarat Rouge 540—her phone buzzed.
Brielle.
Elena answered immediately, placing the phone on speaker.
“Hey Bree,” she said, adjusting her earrings in the mirror. “Are you coming over? I could use a distraction from my life right now.”
“Babe,” Brielle groaned. “I’m literally heartbroken. I just got called into a client emergency. I can’t make it. But send me a full mirror selfie. I know you’re probably glowing.”
Elena pouted at her reflection. “I look like I’m about to walk into a battlefield in designer heels.”
Brielle laughed. “As you should! You’re Elena freaking Montclair.You walk into battles and steal crowns. But seriously, I’m sorry I can’t come.”
“It’s okay. I’ll keep my shield up,” she joked, grabbing her clutch—silver, matte satin with tiny crystals lining the edges. “I’ll text you after, if I survive.”
“Call me. I need all the tea. Don’t hold back.”
When the call ended, Elena stood in front of the mirror, taking one last long look at herself. She looked breathtaking. But inside, her stomach twisted in a dozen nervous knots. She didn’t even know this man—Jackson something. Her dad had only dropped that name like it was supposed to mean something.
With a sigh, she made her way downstairs.
The black SUV rolled to a smooth stop in front of The Aureum, one of the city’s most exclusive fine-dining establishments. The building stood tall and sleek, wrapped in curved glass and black marble with warm golden lighting glowing from within. A pair of doormen in sharp tuxedos opened the entrance with practiced grace, nodding respectfully as Elena stepped out.
The valet took the car, and Elena smoothed her dress as she walked inside. The air was rich with the scent of polished wood, aged wine, and something faintly floral. Chandeliers floated above her like frozen fireworks, and a grand staircase wound upward like something out of a movie.
A hostess approached her with a soft smile. “Miss Montclair? Your party is waiting in the Imperial Lounge. This way, please.”
As they walked, Elena’s heart pounded. She wasn’t sure if it was from her heels clicking on the marble or the fact that she was walking into a conversation that could decide her future.
The Imperial Lounge was a private room behind velvet curtains, reserved only for the most prestigious guests. Gold-accented walls, velvet chairs, and a long dining table dressed in white linens and crystal glassware made the space feel more like a royal court than a restaurant.
Her parents were already seated.
Her father, Richard Montclair, rose immediately when he saw her, beaming with approval. Dressed in a deep navy suit with a silk pocket square and his signature Montclair cufflinks, he looked every bit the businessman eager to strike a deal.
“Elena, darling,” he greeted, kissing her cheek. “You look stunning.”
Her mother, Vivienne, elegantly sipped from her wine glass. Clad in a champagne-toned silk blouse and diamond earrings that danced in the light, she gave a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Very elegant, sweetheart. We knew you’d make a good impression.”
Elena forced a polite smile. I’m not here to impress anyone.
Before she could sit, the maître d’ reappeared and announced, “The Wentworths have arrived.”
The atmosphere shifted slightly, like the moment just before lightning strikes.
The door opened and in walked Alexander Wentworth, the legendary tycoon behind Wentworth Global. He carried power like a cloak—his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly styled, his grey tailored suit immaculate. Beside him walked Eleanor Wentworth, tall and graceful, in a deep emerald dress that mirrored Elena’s. Her smile was warm but calculated.
And then—him.
Jaxon Wentworth.
Elena’s heart faltered. He was the man from that day—the rude stranger. The one who hadn’t even said sorry before brushing her off.
No. Way.
He looked the same. Cold gaze, sharply defined jawline, dark hair slicked back in an effortless style. A black suit tailored like a second skin. Confident. Dangerous. Rich.
He looked at her.
And she knew instantly.
Their eyes locked—his, unreadable; hers, stunned. But neither of them said a word.
“Everyone,” Alexander began, with a proud smile, “thank you for coming. Tonight, we discuss the beginning of a powerful alliance between two great families.”
Jaxon remained silent, jaw tight, as he pulled out a chair and sat beside his father. Elena sat opposite, her hands resting on the silk napkin in her lap, trying not to glare.
Richard Montclair clapped his hands together. “Let’s eat first, then get into the details. After all, family should dine before business.”
Servants began to move gracefully, pouring wine and placing plates of roasted duck, saffron risotto, and glazed vegetables before them.
Small talk began—stock prices, fashion, family friends in Europe.
But the silence between Jaxon and Elena was louder than the clink of forks.
At one point, Vivienne leaned over to Eleanor and whispered, “They do make a striking pair, don’t they?”
Elena’s gaze snapped toward Jaxon again. He was cutting his food with the same precision he seemed to live by. Cold. Clean. Controlled.
Ugh, she thought. This can’t be real.
Then, Alexander Wentworth cleared his throat. “Jaxon, you understand the significance of this arrangement. It’s not only a business alignment. It’s the future. For both of you.”
All eyes turned to him.
He didn’t look at Elena. “I understand,” he said flatly. “Doesn’t mean I agree.”
Gasps fluttered around the table, but Thomas simply narrowed his eyes.
Elena smirked slightly.
Oh. So he’s not into it either. That makes two of us.
The tension crackled.
“I’ll agree,” Jaxon added after a beat, “when I believe it’s worth it.”
Alexander's face darkened, but Eleanor placed a hand on his arm.
“We’ll continue this discussion later,” she said diplomatically.
Dessert arrived—honey tarts with spun sugar—but no one touched them.
Elena rose first, excusing herself. She needed air. Her mind was spinning.
Behind her, Jaxon rose too, but not to follow her.
As she stepped into the hallway, she exhaled.
The city skyline outside Jaxon Wentworth’s penthouse glowed in gold and steel as the evening sun dipped low. Inside, the soft click of Italian leather shoes echoed across the marble floor as he stood before the full-length mirror, adjusting the cufflinks on his crisp white shirt.
His tuxedo jacket, black with subtle satin lapels, hung waiting on the edge of his bed. His jaw was sharp, his expression unreadable—classic Jaxon. But behind those gray eyes, his thoughts weren’t still.
A soft knock came at the door.
“Come in,” he said, without turning.
Damon, his assistant, stepped in holding a phone and a slim leather folder. “Everything’s set at the Montclair estate, sir. Dinner starts at eight.”
Jaxon nodded, slipping on the jacket. “And the girl?”
Damon raised a brow. “Elena Montclair. Twenty-four. Studied fashion abroad. Just returned last month. Works at her family’s company.”
Jaxon glanced at his reflection, tugging the sleeves into place. “Any scandals? Wild behavior?”
“None. Actually, she seems… quiet. Kept her life pretty private.”
Jaxon smirked. “Private or boring?”
Damon didn’t answer.
Jaxon turned, finally meeting his assistant’s eyes. “I just need this to go smoothly. After that, feelings don’t matter. This isn’t about love.”
Damon hesitated. “Still… you sound like you care what she’s like.”
“I don’t,” Jaxon said quickly. Then, after a beat, he added, “But I need to know who I’m dealing with.”
He picked up his watch, snapped it onto his wrist, then walked past Damon toward the door.
“Let’s go. Let’s get this dinner over with.”
\---
As the dinner wore on, the polite smiles began to fade. Elena had done her best to remain composed, but the way Jackson kept avoiding eye contact—and when he did look at her, the smugness in his gaze—was really starting to get under her skin.
At some point, Mr. Wentworth casually mentioned the engagement date, and that’s when Elena snapped slightly.
“Wait,” she cut in, eyes wide. “An actual date has been set?”
Jaxon chuckled low, not even looking at her. “Didn’t think you’d care. I mean, you clearly didn’t have a say in any of this.”
Her jaw tightened. “You’re right, I didn’t. But I also didn’t think I was marrying someone who treats everything like a business transaction.”
He leaned in just slightly, his tone calm but cutting. “And you think this isn’t business?”
The table went quiet.
Mrs. Montclair tried to smooth things over, but Elena stood up abruptly. “I think I need some air.”
Without another word, she walked out, heels clicking against the marble floor. Jackson didn’t move. He just picked up his wine glass again and muttered under his breath, “This is going to be fun.”
So after Elena storms off, the air at the table gets thick.
Mrs. Wentworth clears her throat softly, trying to ease the tension. “She’s just overwhelmed, I’m sure,” she says with an awkward smile, her eyes darting between the remaining guests.
Mr. Montclair shifts in his seat, clearly embarrassed. “She’s not usually like that. I think the surprise is still fresh.”
Jaxon leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “Maybe next time, give her a bit of a heads-up before announcing her future at a dinner table,” he says flatly, not bothering to hide his irritation.
Mr. Wentworth narrows his eyes at his son. “You’re not helping, Jackson. This isn’t just about you.”
“Oh, I know exactly what it’s about,” Jaxon replies, tone sharp. “You want your alliance. And I’m just the means to get it.”
Mrs. Montclair speaks up gently, “It’s not about using anyone. It’s about building something that helps both families.”
Jaxon gives a dry laugh and shakes his head, but doesn’t say more. The silence that follows is heavy. Forks scrape against plates. Glasses clink awkwardly. The dinner continues, but no one’s really eating.
Then, just as it seems like things might cool down, Jaxon suddenly pushes his chair back and stands. “If you’ll excuse me,” he says, voice low but firm. “I have somewhere else to be.”
And with that, he walks away from the table—leaving everyone else staring after him.
His assistant cleared his throat softly. “Sir, the car is ready when you are.”
He gave a curt nod, eyes still fixed on the empty doorway. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
As he walked away, Jackson’s mind churned with thoughts he wouldn’t dare voice aloud—about alliances, about control, and, unexpectedly, about Elena herself.