That had been her dream stage: a private but high-profile dinner at the top of Sterling Tower, with city power brokers, foundation trustees, press-adjacent friends, and just enough publicity to make the marriage feel inevitable.
He had postponed it twice because of Valerie’s health.
Now he was giving it back.
“After all this chaos?” Celeste asked lightly.
“Especially after this chaos.”
Another pause.
Then he heard the smile return to her voice. “All right.”
“Wear white,” he said, and hung up.
By seven-thirty, the Sterling Tower penthouse glittered with candlelight and controlled elegance.
The skyline spread outside the glass like a field of electric stars. Waiters moved in silence. Trustees from the foundation murmured over champagne. Two city council donors laughed softly near the piano. Celeste’s favorite society columnist had somehow made the guest list, just as Ernest knew she would.
Celeste arrived twenty minutes late.
Of course she did.
She entered in a white silk dress that skimmed her body like poured cream, diamonds at her throat, hair pinned in a style meant to look effortless and expensive. Every eye turned toward her.
She took in the room, the flowers, the crowd, and relaxed instantly.
She thought she had won.
When she reached Ernest, she offered her cheek like royalty.
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