Chapter 17: The Cost of One Mistake

POV: IVY

One wrong answer at dinner was enough to make Michael look at me as if I had already failed him.

The silent ride back from his parents' estate felt like sitting inside a moving tomb. Rain lashed relentlessly against the Maybach’s tinted glass, blurred red taillights bleeding across the dark city streets. Beside me, Michael sat with his hands folded loosely in his lap, his jaw set in a hard, dangerous line. The air between us was thick with unexpressed rage.

When the car finally pulled up under the portico of the mansion, Michael didn't wait for the driver to open his door. He pushed it open himself, stepping out into the storm. I gathered the emerald velvet skirt of Gemma’s dress and hurried after him into the warm glow of the foyer, the door shutting out the howling wind.

Michael turned on his heel and the second Mrs. Gable took his coat and withdrew down the hall.

“What was that performance tonight?” Michael demanded, his voice dangerously low, cutting through the vast entry hall like a blade.

I straightened my spine, fighting the urge to take a step back. “I answered their questions, Michael. The dinner went smoothly overall.”

“Smoothly?” A cold, harsh laugh escaped his lips, short and devoid of any humor. “You stumbled over a basic childhood memory in front of my aunt. You looked panicked, hesitant, and entirely out of place. My mother spent the entire dessert course questioning whether you even possess the poise to represent our family.”

“It was a minor slip on a detail from ten years ago…”

“You don't get to make minor slips!” Michael snapped, taking a step toward me, towering over me as his stormy gray eyes flared with intense irritation. “You were brought into this marriage to present a seamless, untouchable image to the board and my family. If you display weakness or hesitation, you make this entire merger look like a mistake. I will not have my reputation damaged because you cannot handle a simple dinner conversation.”

His words hit like physical blows, but I kept my chin forced upward into Gemma’s signature arrogant posture.

“I will review the family accounts again,” I said, keeping my tone as cold and detached as my trembling voice would allow. “It won't happen a second time.”

Michael stared down at me for a long, grueling moment, his eyes searching my bare face as if looking for the crack in the porcelain facade. Without another word, he turned his back on me and walked briskly down the corridor toward his private study, the heavy doors slamming shut behind him.

I retreated to the east wing, shutting myself inside my quiet guest suite. My hands shook as I locked the door, leaning my back against the wood while my pulse hammered violently in my throat. Olivia’s parting warning at the estate echoed in my head alongside Michael’s cold rage. If I made one more mistake, if I hesitated on one more detail, they would tear the disguise off me, and the funding for Grandmother’s ventilator would vanish overnight.

Driven by a surge of desperate anger, I grabbed my phone and dialed Gemma’s Paris line.

She picked up on the third ring. The background hum of an exclusive night club thudded softly through the speaker, accompanied by high-pitched laughter.

“Gemma, I need you to listen to me,” I said, my voice tight and trembling with suppressed fury.

“Ivy? Ugh, do you know what time it is here?” Gemma complained, her voice slurred and laced with champagne. “I’m in the middle of a VIP afterparty.”

“I don't care about your party!” I hissed into the phone, keeping my voice low so it wouldn't carry into the hall. “Your Aunt Beatrice asked me about a chalet in Vermont tonight, about a flooded third-floor bathroom when you were sixteen! It wasn't in the binder! Michael’s mother, Olivia, practically accused me of being an impostor right in front of the family!”

Gemma let out a loud, theatrical sigh through the receiver. “Oh, that old story? Please, Aunt Beatrice brings that up every time she gets drunk. Why didn't you just laugh it off?”

“Because I didn't know it happened!” I shouted softly, gripping the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. “I need detailed family memories, Gemma! I need real stories, names of childhood friends, places you stayed, scandals you covered up! If I slip up one more time, Michael is going to start digging!”

“Then let him dig!” Gemma snapped back, her tone instantly hardening into cold, arrogant dismissal. “Stop panicking like a pathetic little victim, Ivy! You are overcomplicating a simple job. Michael doesn't care about childhood stories; he cares about maintaining his public image. Your only job is to wear my clothes, keep your mouth shut, and act like you own the room.”

“Gemma, please….”

“Listen to me,” Gemma interrupted coldly, her voice dropping into a sharp, cruel thread that mirrored Evelyn’s worst moments. “You are a temporary placeholder. You’re filling a seat until my three years are up and I come back to claim the settlement. Don't call me again over silly family gossip. Figure it out.”

The line went dead.

I stood in the center of the cold, quiet room, staring at the blank screen of my phone. The isolation crushed down on me like a physical weight. I was completely on my own in an arena of wolves, surrounded by people waiting for me to bleed.

I barely slept that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Michael’s icy gray glare and heard Olivia’s whisper echoing in the dark.

The next morning at eight-thirty, a sharp knock sounded at my suite door.

I pulled my robe tight around my silk nightgown and opened it. Standing in the hallway was Linus, Michael’s chief executive assistant, a man impeccably dressed in a dark grey suit, carrying a thick leather dossier under his arm.

“Good morning, Mrs. Sterling,” Linus said smoothly, bowing his head with crisp, professional courtesy. “Mr. Sterling instructed me to deliver the brief for tomorrow night’s annual Sterling Enterprises Corporate Gala at the Grand Plaza.”

“Thank you, Linus,” I replied, stepping aside slightly.

“Mr. Sterling requested that you review the guest layout personally today,” Linus continued, stepping forward and opening the leather dossier. He pulled out a sleek, gold-embossed booklet detailing the itinerary, seating arrangements, and press protocols for the event.

Linus handed me the document, his expression remaining entirely neutral, though a flicker of quiet hesitation passed through his eyes.

“Mr. Sterling wanted to ensure there are no surprises regarding the host committee,” Linus added carefully. “The table arrangements have been finalized by the executive board.”

My eyes dropped to the fine print on the VIP seating chart at the top of the page.

Sitting directly beside Michael’s designated seat at the head table was a prominently highlighted name. Printed in bold, gold lettering was:

Melanie Williams Special Guest of Honor