45

Chase had surprisingly orchestrated  a welcome charity fund raiser that Monday afternoon , he had done so with military precision—or so he thought.

He had hand-picked the guest list to exclude anyone who might favor Giselle’s "new attitude," intending to use the luncheon to re-establish himself as the Hemingway heir-apparent.

Richard sat at the head table of the conference, looking stoic and regal, though his eyes darted toward the entrance every few minutes.

Chase sat to his left, with Monica—dressed in a sequins-gown that screamed too much for 1:00 PM—clinging to his arm.

The Master of Ceremonies stepped up to the podium, tapping the microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests," the MC beamed. "We are gathered here to celebrate the return of a titan. Please, join me in welcoming the man of the hour, Mr. Richard Hemingway, and his beloved wife, the stunning Mrs. Hemingway!"

The room erupted in applause. The MC gestured toward the grand double doors.

Chase’s face turned white. "What? No, that’s not—"

The doors swung open.

Giselle appeared like a celestial goddess. She was draped in a cream-colored sheath dress, minimal jewelry, and a confidence that radiated off her in waves. She looked like old money personified.

Richard froze, his glass halfway to his lips.

Chase looked like he was about to have a stroke.

Giselle glided toward the head table, the applause reaching a deafening pitch.

Monica, realizing the MC had just labeled Giselle as the "beloved wife" of the man she was trying to impress, instantly recoiled from Chase’s side as if his touch were toxic.

Richard, recovering his poise with the grace of a seasoned diplomat, stood up and took the microphone from the bumbling MC.

"A slight correction for our host," Richard said, his voice echoing with authority. "This is indeed the stunning Mrs. Hemingway, but she is my daughter-in-law and my son’s beautiful wife. The 'beloved' part, however, is quite accurate for the family."

The room chuckled politely, though the tension was high enough to cut. Monica stood three feet away from Chase, looking small and misplaced.

The MC wiped sweat from his brow. "My deepest apologies! I meant to invite Mr. Chase Hemingway and his lovely wife to the stage!"

Chase, forced by the eyes of three hundred elites, stepped onto the stage. He didn't look at Giselle as she joined him. He cleared his throat, trying to salvage his dignity.

"Thank you," Chase muttered into the mic. "As many of you know, my father has been away for some time. I organized this gala to honor his legacy. Because he has always been a man of vision, all funds raised today will be donated to the Hemingway Literacy Initiative, focused on building libraries in underserved rural districts."

"A noble cause," Giselle whispered, her voice carrying through the mic as she leaned in. "I’m sure the thirty million we’re about to raise will make a dent."

Chase shot her a look of pure venom. “What is she doing here?” He cursed under his breath.

The fundraising began. It was supposed to be a standard silent auction, but Giselle turned it into a bloodsport.

"I’ll start the bidding for the primary wing of the first library," a wealthy senator called out. "Fifty thousand!"

Giselle stepped forward, a glass of sparkling water in her hand. "The Hemingway family—specifically my personal office—will match the first five hundred thousand. Let’s make this interesting, shall we?"

The room buzzed. Monica, desperate to be noticed, tugged on Chase’s sleeve. "Chase, I want to donate something. Let me announce a contribution."

"Not now, Monica," Chase hissed.

"I have five thousand dollars from my own boutique!" Monica yelled out, trying to catch the MC’s eye.

The room went silent for a beat. Someone in the back let out a soft snicker. Five thousand dollars in a room where the centerpieces cost ten thousand was an insult.

Monica looked like a social climber who had wandered into the wrong party.

Giselle didn't even look back at her. "Make that six hundred thousand," she told the auctioneer.

As the luncheon transitioned into networking, Chase tried to pivot. He grabbed Monica’s hand and led her toward the CEO of a major tech firm and his wife.

"Arthur, I’d like you to meet a close friend of mine, Monica," Chase said, forcing a smile.

Arthur looked at Monica’s sequins, then at Chase, then past them both. "Yes, lovely. Excuse me, Chase, but is that your wife speaking with the Duchess? I’ve been trying to get a word with her about the textile merger."

Arthur and his wife walked away before Chase could even finish his introduction.

"Chase!" Monica whimpered. "He didn't even look at me!"

"I told you to dress down," Chase snapped.

"I look amazing! She just... she’s doing this on purpose!"

A few feet away, Giselle was surrounded by a circle of the most powerful women in the city.

 They were laughing, leaning in to hear her speak. She was effortless.

"Giselle, darling," the Duchess said, touching Giselle’s arm. "Your insight on the rural education gap is fascinating. You must come to my brunch on Tuesday. We need women like you on the board."

"I’d be honored," Giselle replied.

Chase tried to break into the circle. "Giselle, dear, Monica was just saying how much she admires your... initiative."

The circle of women went cold. They looked at Monica as if she were a smudge on a window.

"Who?" the Duchess asked.

Giselle offered a tight, polite smile. "She’s a guest of Chase’s. I believe. Now, back to the literacy rates in the East..."

Monica’s lower lip trembled. She looked at the faces of the elite—the judgment, the dismissal, the sheer invisibility of her presence. She turned and ran toward the powder room, the sound of her sequins clashing against the marble floors.

Richard watched from the bar, a smirk playing on his lips. He walked over to Giselle as the crowd thinned for a moment.

"You’re a natural, Giselle," Richard murmured. "You’ve turned a charity lunch into something else."

"I prefer to call it an audit," Giselle said, taking a sip of water. "I’m just showing everyone exactly what the Hemingway assets are worth."

"And Chase?" Richard asked, nodding toward his son, who was standing alone by a fountain, looking lost.

"Chase is a liability," Giselle said. "And liabilities eventually get written off."

She walked away to join another group of dignitaries, leaving Richard staring after her, realizing that Chase had lost the war before it even began.