Prologue
The moment my stilettos hit the scarlet carpet, the night explodes in white light.
Camera shutters flutter like a flock of mechanical birds, all turning their metal beaks toward me. The roar of the crowd, the clicking, the chorus of my name, everything about it is dazzling, almost deafening.
“Ava! Over here!”
“Look left, beautiful!”
“Give us that smile again!”
“One more pose!”
I know this dance by heart. I tilt my chin, sweep my hair to the side so the chandelier earrings catch the light, let my smile bloom just enough, warm but not too eager. My publicist would call it approachable perfection.
This is my world: the flashbulbs, the silk gown that glides across the floor like liquid gold, the scent of roses that follows me from the limo. A world where Ava Claire Park is the darling of magazines, actress, model, and walking dream.
No one here can see the knot in my stomach.
I stride forward a few steps, pause at the sponsor wall, throw a quick glance at Sophie, my manager and best friend, hovering just outside the barricade. She flashes me a thumbs-up. I lift my chin higher. The photographers eat it up.
“Who are you wearing tonight, Ava?” someone yells.
I glance over my shoulder, lips curling into a playful grin. “Maison Park, of course,” I answer sweetly. A few reporters laugh. I just gave a free advertisement for my family’s fashion label. My father would have been proud.
That thought alone warms me for a heartbeat until the knot in my stomach tightens again.
A tiny vibration hums against my palm. I glance down discreetly, lifting the clutch that hides my phone. A red-carpet rule: never check calls in front of cameras. It breaks the illusion.
But the name flashing on the screen makes the rest of the world blur.
Mom.
She never calls when I’m at events. A text, maybe. A call means… something’s wrong.
I force a pleasant wave at the reporters and glide off to the side, pretending to adjust my train. As soon as I’m behind a velvet sponsor banner, I tap accept.
“Mom? I’m kind of—”
“Ava.”
Her voice is tight. That one word wipes the practiced smile from my face.
“What’s wrong? Is it Dad’s health?”
There’s a shaky exhale.
“It’s the company. Investors are pulling out. Sales dropped again this quarter. We can’t cover the debts. If we don’t find a way soon… we’ll lose everything.”
For a second, the sound of the crowd and cameras outside fades. I lean a little against the banner, careful not to wrinkle the silk gown.
The Maison Park, our fashion house has been in our family for decades. The idea of it collapsing feels unreal.
My father built Maison Park from scratch. My mother kept it alive through every fashion season, every trend. It’s more than a company; it’s our name, our history.
My throat tightens. “We’ll figure something out. Maybe I can invest from my endorsement deals, or—”
“We’ve tried everything,” she cuts in, her voice fraying. “There’s… there’s only one way left.”
“One way?” I echo, frowning.
A pause stretches long enough for me to hear the muffled cheers from the carpet beyond the curtain.
“Marry Alexander Han.”
The words land like a misfired firework bright, loud, and completely wrong.
I blink, certain I misheard. “Come again?”
“Alexander Han,” she repeats, steady this time, as if saying it firmer will make it less insane. “His company is willing to inject capital into Maison Park but the board wants an alliance. A merger. And Alexander… he’s agreed. If you marry him.”
A laugh bubbles in my throat, but it’s the disbelieving kind that feels like a cough. “Mom, you’re joking, right? This is the twenty-first century. People don’t… barter their daughters anymore.”
“I wouldn’t ask you if there were any other choice,” she says quietly. “But if we don’t accept, we’ll go under. Ava, this could save your father’s life’s work.”
My fingers tighten around the phone until the sharp edge of the clutch digs into my palm.
Alexander Han.
I’ve met him once, at a charity dinner. Tall. Dark suit. Perfectly polite but utterly unreadable. The tabloids call him the “Ice King of Corporate Law,” a business tycoon who can dismantle companies with a smile and airtight contract.
And my mother wants me to marry him.
I try to keep my voice calm. “Mom, I can’t just, I don’t even know him.”
“You’ll have time to,” she says, with that tone that’s both pleading and firm, the way she used to sound when coaxing a stubborn eight-year-old me to go onstage for my first audition. “We’ll talk more when you come home tonight. Please… just think about it.”
Before I can respond, someone from the event staff calls my name. The next celebrity is approaching the carpet; I’m blocking the shot.
“Mom, I have to—”
“Think about it, Ava,” she says again, softer this time. “For the company. For your father.”
The line clicks off.
For a long moment I just stand there, phone pressed to my ear, staring at the gleaming floor that reflects a perfect version of my painted smile.
Beyond the curtain, the crowd cheers for the actress arriving after me. The flashbulbs keep popping, the MC keeps calling names. The show goes on.
I swallow the lump in my throat, tuck the phone back into my clutch, and pull my shoulders straight.
When I step back into the light, the photographers cheer as if nothing in the world has changed. I throw them my brightest smile, the one I’ve mastered over years of red-carpet appearances.
None of them can see the crack running through me.
In their photos, I’m still the glittering Ava Claire Park who has it all.
But I know the truth.
In the space of one phone call, my fairy-tale life has turned into a negotiation. And the price of saving my family’s name might just be my freedom.
