Chapter 3 - The Gala in Charleston
Six months later, spring arrived in South Carolina.
The annual Charleston Preservation Society Gala was the most important social event of the year. Held in the grand ballroom of the historic Francis Marion Hotel, it brought together the oldest fortunes, political figures, and cultural leaders in the state.
For thirty years, Victoria Harrington had served as the Chairwoman of the Gala Committee.
This year, her name was absent from the program.
I sat at the head table near the stage, wearing an exquisite emerald-green silk gown of my own design—draped gracefully over one shoulder, with delicate gold lace trailing down the back. Beside me sat James, looking handsome in his black tuxedo, his hand resting securely over mine.
Beside James sat Henry. He looked thinner than he had six months ago, but his eyes were clear, his posture erect, and his presence commanding. He had not divorced Victoria—such a public split was not his style—but they lived entirely separate lives. Victoria remained isolated at the Kiawah estate, excluded from all corporate boards and social committees.
"You look stunning tonight, Olivia," Henry said warmly, lifting his champagne glass toward me. "I believe half the women in this room are currently staring at your dress with intense envy."
"Including the Mayor's wife," James whispered in my ear with a wink. "She asked me three times during cocktails if you were accepting new custom orders for the autumn season."
I laughed softly. "Tell her my book is full until November."
My studio in Savannah had exploded. Over the past six months, we had hired four full-time seamstresses and two pattern cutters to keep up with the demand from brides across the country. My story—the independent designer who built her own brand from scratch—had been featured in two national fashion magazines.
Suddenly, a subtle hush fell over the eastern side of the ballroom.
Whispers rippled through the tables near the entrance like wind through autumn leaves.
I turned my head.
Standing in the grand doorway of the ballroom, wearing a vintage navy velvet dress, was Victoria Harrington.
She was unaccompanied. Her silver hair was styled neatly, her pearls were in place, but she moved with a subtle hesitation—a stark contrast to the regal, effortless authority she had displayed for decades. She had ignored her husband’s warning; she could not bear the thought of the city’s biggest night happening without her presence.
Henry set his glass down on the table with a soft clack. His jaw tightened.
Victoria scanned the room until her eyes landed on our table. For three seconds, nobody moved. Guests at adjacent tables pretended to adjust their napkins while secretly watching the unfolding drama.
Victoria straightened her spine, took a slow breath, and began walking toward our table.
James moved to stand up, but I reached out and gently laid my hand on his arm.
"Let her come," I whispered.
Victoria stopped three feet from our table. She looked at Henry first, but Henry’s expression was an impassable wall of ice. She turned her eyes to James, who looked at her with polite, distant detachment.
Finally, Victoria’s gaze dropped to me.
She looked at my emerald-green gown. She looked at the gold lace. She looked at the diamond bracelet on my wrist—a gift from Henry that had belonged to James's grandmother.
"Victoria," Henry spoke, his voice quiet enough that only our table could hear. "You were not invited to sit at the host table tonight."
Victoria swallowed hard. Her hand trembled slightly as she clutched her beaded evening bag.
"I did not come to sit, Henry," Victoria said softly, her voice missing its usual crisp sharpness. She looked directly at me. "I came to deliver something."
May you like
She reached into her bag and pulled out a small, velvet-lined wooden box.
She set it gently on the white tablecloth in front of me.
