JAY JAY POV
After three agonizing days stuck in bed while my fever stubbornly refused to drop below a hundred, I was finally human again.
My head had stopped throbbing, the exhaustion had mostly cleared, and I didn’t feel like a walking furnace anymore.
Unfortunately, waking up also meant returning to reality.
There are only two days left before the Mariano hundredth anniversary gala, and the entire estate has descended into total, suffocating chaos.
Caterers, florists, security consultants, and high-end tailors have been flooding the corridors from sunrise to sunset, frantically checking every detail to make sure the event is completely immaculate.
The most insane part?
Not a single person outside our immediate family knows what is going to be announced on that stage.
Not the staff, not the maids whispering in the halls, and definitely not the high-society syndicates polishing their jewelry for the party.
It is strictly our dirty little secret for now.
Standing in front of my vanity mirror, my stomach twisted into knots.
I have spent years actively running away from Mark Keifer Watson.
I avoided his calls, dodged his public appearances, and turned down every joint architectural project with the Watson empire just to keep his darkness at arm’s length.
How am I supposed to react when I see him at that gala?
The honest answer is that I don’t have a clue.
Do I look at him with pure hatred?
Do I play along with the political puppet show to protect my family?
How am I supposed to breathe when the boy I used to adore is standing beside me as a cold-blooded killer holding the leash to my future?
“Fuck, Jay,” I whispered to my reflection, gripping the edge of the marble counter until my knuckles turned white.
Dwelling on it wasn’t going to fix anything.
I pulled myself together, threw on a clean pair of trousers and a tailored silk shirt, and headed downstairs just to put some food in my stomach.
While I was poking at my breakfast, trying to force down scrambled eggs I didn’t even want, Percy slid into the chair opposite me.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, eyeing me with genuine concern.
“Better,” I muttered, stabbing a piece of toast.
“I still have a lingering cold, though.”
“Yeah, your voice definitely sounds raspy,” Percy pointed out with a teasing grin.
I glared back and pouted, not in the mood for his jokes.
Aries walked into the dining room, holding a tablet and scrolling through schedules.
“So, we need to go shopping today.”
“For what?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“For the gala,” Papa said, not looking up from his black coffee.
“We need to find you and Keifer matching outfits for the announcement.”
The fork in my hand clattered against the porcelain plate.
“No,” I said instantly “I have to go to the office. I have a design work with the Ashfords that needs my immediate attention.”
“Jay—” Papa started, his voice dropping into that warning register.
“If you want outfits that match so badly, go pick out a dress yourself,” I cut him off, shoving my chair back and getting to my feet.
“I will wear whatever ridiculous thing you hand me, but please, do not drag me along.”
“At least finish your food,” Aries called out, his tone firm.
“I’m not hungry,” I tossed over my shoulder without slowing down.
I stormed out through the front doors, climbed into the back of the town car waiting in the driveway, and told the driver to head straight to the corporate headquarters.
As the car pulled through the estate gates, I pulled out my phone and opened social media.
My entire feed was flooded with articles, blind items, and high-society speculation about the Mariano hundredth anniversary.
Of course everyone was buzzing about it.
The most powerful families in the country were gathering in forty-eight hours.
I turned off my phone, annoyed by the endless gala rumors, and stared out the tinted window as the city buildings blurred past.
When the elevator finally opened onto the executive architectural floor, I walked toward my studio, scanning the desks for Ethan.
We were collaborating closely on the Ashford luxury development blueprints, and I needed his structural calculations on my desk ten minutes ago.
His usual workstation right across from my glass doors was completely wiped clean.
The desktop monitors were gone, the chair was pushed in, and only empty cables dangled toward the carpet.
I stopped at the next cubicle and tapped the partition.
“Where is Ethan?”
The junior architect flinched, keeping her eyes glued to her keyboard.
“Ma’am… yesterday Mr. Watson personally ordered Ethan’s desk moved.”
A spike of pure irritation flared in my chest.
“Go get Ethan right now,” I ordered.
She nodded frantically, practically scrambling out of her seat to fetch him.
A minute later, Ethan hurried over, clutching a stack of rolled floor plans against his chest like a shield.
He looked visibly rattled, his shoulders hunched, his eyes darting toward the frosted glass of my office as if someone were hiding in the shadows with a sniper rifle.
I crossed my arms and leveled a flat, commanding gaze at him.
“Who do you work under, Ethan?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm.
“Ma’am…” he began, his voice wavering as he swallowed hard.
“Answer my question,” I cut in, stepping closer.
“Do you report to Mark Keifer Watson, or are you on my design team?”
“To you, Ma’am,” he stammered, clutching the blueprints tighter against his chest.
“Right. So who should you be listening to?” I asked him, raising an eyebrow.
Ethan looked like he wanted the polished floor to split open and swallow him whole.
His eyes darted nervously across the room, as if Keifer Watson might materialize out of the ventilation shafts just to rip his head off.
“To you, Ma’am,” he squeaked again.
“Good. Glad we cleared that up,” I said, pointing directly at the empty desk right across from my glass doors.
“Unplug your equipment from the freight corner and drag it straight back here. If anyone has a problem with it, tell them to take it up with Architect Jean Mariano. Not Mr. Watson. Not my father. Me.”
“B-but Ma’am, Mr. Watson looked like he was about to murder me yesterday,” Ethan whispered, the sheer panic in his eyes almost making me feel guilty.
“Mr. Watson does not run my studio,” I snapped, turning the door handle to my office.
“He can dictate his own bloody empire, but inside these glass walls, I call the shots. Move your things back right now, Ethan, and bring me the Ashford revisions in twenty minutes.”
I pushed inside, slammed the door shut, and threw my handbag onto the sofa.
My hands were trembling with pure, unadulterated rage.
The nerve of that man.
He hasn’t even put the ring on my finger yet, and he is already rearranging my department, terrifying my employees, and trying to control what sits in my peripheral vision.
After a grueling, nonstop day dealing with structural specs and calming Ethan down every twenty minutes, I finally clocked out.
My shoulders ached, my throat was still slightly scratchy from the lingering fever, and all I wanted was to crawl back into bed.
The moment I stepped out through the firm’s private revolving glass doors into the cool evening air, my luck ran out completely.