Chapter 3 Wentworth
The city lights stretched endlessly outside the towering glass walls of Jackson Wentworth’s office. Inside, the room was quiet except for the soft tick of the sleek, modern clock on the wall and the occasional rustle of papers on his desk.
Jackson leaned back in his leather chair, eyes fixed on the documents before him, but his mind was elsewhere. His assistant’s words echoed again in his head—an alliance, a business marriage, a strategic move to save a company on the brink.
He wasn’t new to deals or negotiations, but this… this was different.
Marrying a stranger for business? It felt like a gamble, one he hadn’t been prepared for. His gaze drifted to the framed photo on his desk—a reminder of why he pushed himself so hard. Family legacy, power, success. But marriage? That was personal.
Who is this Elena? he wondered. Does she even know what’s coming? The thought unsettled him. He preferred control, certainty. This arrangement felt anything but.
His fingers tapped a steady rhythm on the polished wood as he considered the possibilities. Yet, the stakes were high. His empire depended on it. And sometimes, survival meant stepping into the unknown.
At that moment, his assistant knocked softly and stepped in. “Sir, the board expects an update on the alliance proposal by tomorrow. They want your approval.”
Jackson sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I need more information about the girl. Background, personality, anything that’ll help me understand what we’re dealing with.”
She nodded, pulling out a tablet. “I’ve already begun gathering data. But, sir, from what I’ve seen, this alliance is more than just business. Your families would be connected. It’s strategic—and personal.”
Jackson stood and paced near the window, his reflection mingling with the cityscape. “Personal,” he echoed. “That complicates things.”
His assistant hesitated before adding, “There’s also chatter about the girl’s father pushing hard for this, sir. He’s desperate to save his company.”
Jackson’s jaw tightened. “Then I need to meet her soon. No surprises.”
Before his assistant could respond, her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and looked up. “Sir, your father just sent a message. He wants you to come home for dinner tonight. Says there’s something important to discuss.”
Jackson’s eyes narrowed, a mix of curiosity and caution flashing across his face. “Fine. Let him wait.”
He turned back to his desk, steeling himself.
________
The morning sun slipped through the windshield of Elena's car, streaking gold across the dashboard as she cruised through the heart of the city. Her fingers drummed anxiously on the steering wheel in sync with the soft rhythm of her playlist, though her mind wasn't really on the music. She’d barely slept, and it showed—not on her face, which was perfectly made-up as always, but in the way her eyes kept blinking longer than they should, and how she kept missing exits she usually took without thinking.
She exhaled deeply, her hands gripping the wheel tighter as the traffic lights changed. A marriage? She still couldn’t wrap her head around it. The memory of her father’s calm, calculating tone echoed in her mind. The kind of man who discusses wedding plans like a business deal. And then Brielle's shocked face. And the rude stranger who bumped into her yesterday—arrogant, sharp-eyed, and unforgettable.
Her phone buzzed against the console. A message from Brielle, probably checking in. Elena didn’t bother reading it. Not yet.
She pulled into the underground parking lot of Eden Row Studios, the fashion house where she worked. It was a sleek glass building nestled between two art galleries, all steel and modern grace. The moment she stepped out of the car, heels clicking sharply against the concrete, her face slipped into the version she always wore to work—polished, confident, unbothered.
Inside, the buzz of creativity wrapped around her like static. Models rushed down hallways, assistants balanced coffee trays, and fabric samples were flung across tables in every shade imaginable. The air smelled like espresso, perfume, and just a hint of hot glue.
“Morning, Elena,” chirped Mia from the design board, her hair in a messy bun and glasses slipping down her nose. “Sketches are already in your inbox. Big day.”
“Thanks,” Elena said with a practiced smile, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. She made her way to her office, a cozy corner space with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the city skyline. Everything in it—from the velvet mood board to the glass vase of fresh white roses—was meticulously placed. But she felt like a mess.
She dropped her bag on the chair, hung her coat, and stood for a moment—just stood there—before sinking into her seat. Her reflection on the screen of her blacked-out monitor looked far too calm. Liar.
Not ten minutes in, she knocked her coffee over, spilling it across a stack of fabric samples.
“Whoa, hey,” her colleague Ava popped her head in. “That’s your second coffee spill this month. You good?”
Elena dabbed at the mess with a napkin and let out a small laugh. “Clumsy fingers. I’m fine.”
“You sure?” Ava walked in, arms crossed, studying her. “You’re like...off. You usually walk in here like you're about to launch a runway show.”
Elena forced another smile, this time softer. “Just didn’t sleep much. Nothing major.”
Ava didn’t look convinced, but she nodded. “Well, when you wanna talk about it—or scream into a pillow—you know where to find me.”
As Ava turned to leave, Elena leaned back in her chair, biting her lower lip. She couldn’t let this mess consume her—not here, not in the one place where she actually felt in control.
She turned on her monitor, blinked at her calendar, and pushed the thoughts aside. For now.
\---
The Wentworth estate wasn’t just a house — it was an empire in marble and gold. Perched atop the hills of Upper Crescent, the mansion stretched wide like a crown, with iron gates guarded round-the-clock and driveways paved with imported stone.
Jaxon’s sleek black Aston Martin pulled into the estate just as the sun dipped below the skyline, painting the sky in rich orange and lavender tones.
Inside, chandeliers glittered from every corner of the grand hallway. Polished floors gleamed beneath his Italian leather shoes as he was led by a butler through arched corridors into the formal dining room.
Long mahogany table. Velvet-lined chairs. Golden dinnerware. A dozen servants moved gracefully around the space like clockwork — some placing food, others lighting candles, as soft classical music floated in the air.
His father, Alexander Wentworth, stood near the head of the table. Grey-streaked hair. Tailored three-piece suit. The kind of man who didn’t speak unless necessary — and when he did, people listened.
“Son,” he greeted, nodding once. “You're on time. Good.”
Jaxon slid into the chair offered to him. “You said it was urgent.”
“Because it is.” Alexander took his seat. “We’re not just here to share a meal.”
Servants poured wine. The scent of roast lamb and buttered vegetables filled the room. But Jaxon didn’t touch his plate.
“I’m listening,” he said flatly.
Alexander took a slow sip of wine before speaking. “The Solis family has been in partnership with us for years. You know this.”
“I also know their company is sinking,” Jaxon replied.
His father’s eyes met his. Sharp. Measured.
“Exactly why this alliance is necessary. Strategic. A merge through marriage—”
“To someone I don’t know?” Jaxon cut in, voice cold. “You expect me to say yes like this is the 1800s?”
Alexander’s expression didn’t change. “This isn’t about romance. It’s about legacy.”
Jaxon leaned back in his chair, jaw tense.
“She’s not a deal. She’s a person.”
“She’s Elena Montclair,” his father said calmly. “Educated. Elegant. A fashion executive. And from what I hear, she’s not thrilled about this either. Which is why I arranged a dinner.”
Jaxon stiffened.
Alexander gestured toward the servant waiting nearby. “You’ll meet her. One night. Get to know the woman before dismissing the idea entirely.”
Jaxon’s mouth twitched — somewhere between a scoff and a smirk.
“And if I refuse?”
“You won’t,” his father replied, cutting into his steak. “You’re a Wentworth. We finish what we start.”
Then Alexander stood, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “You’ll have dinner with her. Just once. Hear her out.”
“And if I walk away after?”
His father gave a rare smile. Not warm — knowing. “Then walk. But I doubt you will.”
Meanwhile, across the city, Elena was spiraling quietly before Her desk buzzed. A message.
It was from her mother.
Dinner. Tonight. 7 PM. Be presentable.
Elena swallowed. Presentable for who?
“Ugh,” she muttered.
“What’s that?” Ava asked, peeking.
“Nothing important.”
But it was.
Her future might be waiting at that dinner table — and she didn’t even know what his face looked like.
________________________________________
Elsewhere, at the top of Wentworth Tower, Jaxon stood in his glass-walled office, staring down at the city with narrowed eyes. His assistant entered with a sealed black envelope.
“Your father sent this,” he said.
Jaxon didn’t move. “Leave it on the desk.”
The assistant hesitated. “Sir... it’s the official invitation. The dinner.”
A slow breath escaped Jaxon’s lips.
He turned, walked over, and picked up the envelope.
He didn’t open it.
Not yet.
He simply stared at it — as if it might burst into flames.
Somewhere in this city, a girl he’d never met was being prepared to be his wife.
And Jaxon Wentworth hated surprises.
But this one?
This one was already rewriting both their lives.