Chapter 2 - The Fitting at Fifth Avenue
The voice on the phone didn't belong to Daniel. It belonged to the coordinator, but the background audio had carried his distinct, low baritone. He hadn't been speaking to me; he had been speaking to someone in his office, completely unaware that his voice had traveled through the digital line straight into my tiny apartment in Queens.
"Miss Chen?" the coordinator, Ellis, prompted, her tone sharpening. "Are you still there?"
"I'm here," I forced out, my hand gripping the phone so tightly my knuckles turned white. "I... I just need to check the girls' school schedule. I will call you back."
I hung up before she could argue.
I stood in the center of my kitchen, my heart hammering against my ribs. Did he know? No. If Daniel knew he had twin daughters, he wouldn't send a wedding coordinator with a generic flower girl invitation. He would have broken down my door himself. Daniel Harden did not request things politely when he wanted them; he commanded them.
But why Betty and Maria? Out of all the thousands of children in New York City, how had a charity selection pool landed exactly on my daughters?
"Mommy," Maria said, tugging at my jeans, her paper flower crown tilting precariously over her left ear. "Are we going to get real dresses? The lady on the phone said they have sparkles."
I looked down at them. They were seven years old. They deserved fairy tales, sparkles, and beautiful days. They didn't deserve to be hidden in the shadows just because their mother had been too afraid to face the reality of the empire she had run away from.
"Yes, baby," I whispered, kneeling down to straighten her crown. "We're going to get real dresses."
Two days later, I found myself standing outside Blanch Bridal on Fifth Avenue. The boutique was closed to the public for a private session. Through the massive glass windows, I could see silk gowns that cost more than my annual transcription income.
I held Betty and Maria’s hands, my fingers cold despite the spring heat. I wore a simple black dress and a trench coat, my hair pulled back into a neat, professional bun. I was no longer Rachel Monroe, the terrified twenty-six-year-old assistant. I was Rachel Chen. A mother.
"Welcome, Miss Chen," a stylist in an immaculate tuxedo suit murmured, bowing slightly as he ushered us inside. "The Sanders party is already in the private viewing lounge."
My stomach plummeted. The Sanders party.
We were led into a sprawling, plush room mirrored from floor to ceiling. Sitting on a velvet sofa, sipping champagne, was Amanda Sanders—the bride. She was a stunning, blonde heiress whose family owned half the real estate in Manhattan. Beside her sat an older woman who looked like she had never smiled in her life: her mother, Victoria.
"Ah, the charity children," Victoria Sanders drawled, lowering her glass to peer at my daughters through gold-rimmed reading glasses. "They look... tidy enough. Let's get them into the silk tulle. Amanda, darling, do you think the ivory matches the altar roses?"
Amanda didn't look at the girls. She was staring at her iPad, her expression bored. "Whatever Daniel wants, Mother. He’s the one who insisted on using the inner-city youth program for the flower girls. He said it reminded him of where he came from."
A wave of relief mixed with profound irony washed over me. Daniel hadn't picked my daughters. He had picked a charity program from Queens because of his own lingering childhood guilt, and fate had simply pulled our file from the stack.
"Right this way, little ones," the stylist said, leading Betty and Maria toward the dressing rooms.
I stayed behind, standing near the racks of lace. As the minutes ticked by, the heavy scent of expensive perfume and champagne made me dizzy. I watched my daughters emerge from the dressing rooms, looking like absolute angels in tiered ivory silk gowns with tiny satin roses along the waist.
"Oh, they'll do," Victoria sniffed, waving a dismissive hand. "Just make sure their hair is pinned back properly. We can't have them looking messy on the telecast."
Suddenly, the heavy glass doors of the boutique opened. The quiet hum of the luxury street outside cut through the room, followed by the firm, unmistakable stride of heavy leather shoes.
"Daniel, darling! You made it!" Amanda squealed, her bored expression instantly vanishing as she stood up from the sofa.
I froze, my back turning completely rigid. I didn't turn around. I couldn't.
"I only have ten minutes, Amanda," Daniel’s voice boomed through the high-ceilinged room. It was deeper than I remembered, carrying the immense weight of a man who ran a global tech empire. "The board meeting for the Tokyo acquisition starts at two."
"Look at the flower girls," Amanda said, gesturing toward the podium where my daughters stood. "The ones from your little charity project."
I slowly turned my head, my breath catching in my throat.
May you like
Daniel stood in the center of the lounge, wearing a dark gray bespoke suit, a tailored overcoat over his arm. His sharp jawline was tight, his dark hair immaculate. He turned his eyes toward the podium.
And then, his gaze shifted. He looked past the girls. He looked directly at me.
