The invitation came the next morning. Handwritten in the bold, neat script of my grandfather's personal assistant, sealed with the Aldridge family crest.
A family dinner.
At the old house.
I hadn't stepped foot there in nearly two years—not since my grandfather decided to divide his time between London and Velmora. The house was a relic. Grand hallways, antique chandeliers, fireplaces that had warmed three generations. It was more museum than home, but for my grandfather, it was sacred ground. Where he built his legacy. Where he raised my father. Where he tried, in his way, to raise me after the accident.
Celine received her invitation that same morning, delivered to our penthouse with a formal knock. I watched her from across the breakfast bar as she read it. Her lips pressed together in that way that meant she was holding back a retort.
"He wants us both there," I said, already anticipating her annoyance.
She folded the card slowly. "And Evelyn."
I nodded. "It's just dinner. He likes tradition."
"He likes control," she muttered, and walked off before I could respond.
She wasn't wrong.
---
We arrived at the Aldridge estate just after six.
The driver pulled up to the familiar loop of cobblestone, where ivy crawled over white stone columns and lanterns flickered like something out of a different century. The scent of old roses clung to the air, thick and heady.
Evelyn stepped out first, warm in a navy wrap dress and a pearl brooch I hadn't seen her wear since my graduation. Her enthusiasm was unmistakable. This house meant memories for her too—ones she chose to cherish rather than mourn.
Celine emerged next, elegant in a deep emerald dress, her heels clicking on the stone as we ascended the steps. Her expression was composed, but distant. We hadn't spoken much in the car.
The doors opened to reveal Charles Aldridge, standing with perfect posture in a tailored grey suit, his cane more accessory than necessity. His silver hair was combed back, his eyes sharp.
"Blake," he greeted with a nod. "And my dear Evelyn. Lovely as ever."
"Charles," my mother smiled, accepting his light embrace.
He turned to Celine. "Welcome home, Celine. Or should I say, granddaughter now?"
She blinked, clearly caught off guard for a moment, before regaining her composure. "Thank you, Mr. Aldridge."
He smiled. "Call me Charles, if not Grandfather. We are family now, after all."
Dinner was served in the formal dining room, the same one where I had once spilled grape juice on a thousand-dollar Persian rug and lived in fear of retribution for a month.
The table was long enough to seat fifteen. Tonight, we were four. The distance between Celine and me felt far greater than the few feet separating our chairs.
The meal passed with polite conversation—stock prices, charity initiatives, upcoming tech conferences. My grandfather made small talk like it was currency, inserting small anecdotes about Velmora's legacy and the importance of strategic unity.
Then, over dessert, he dropped it.
"I've scheduled a joint board meeting," he said, lifting a glass of brandy. "Both Aldridge Industries and Cater Innovations. Wednesday morning."
Celine stiffened.
"Ahead of the fiscal realignment," he continued, unbothered. "It's only prudent. The press conference sealed the public narrative. Time to ensure the private one is just as cohesive."
"You're merging the boards?" she asked.
He smiled. "We're aligning them. Strategically. Temporarily, of course. We wouldn't want to override any personal autonomy."
I knew that tone. It meant: You'll do as I say, and I'll call it a suggestion.
"Blake will co-chair the session," he added. "And Celine, your insights into AI development have impressed more than a few of our stakeholders. They're eager to hear more."
"Are they?" she said coolly.
"Indeed." He set down his glass. "Consider it a gift. A seat at the table where real decisions are made."
"And the dinner," Evelyn cut in gently, "is also a celebration. Charles has a surprise for you both."
My grandfather raised his hand, and the butler reappeared with two distinct packages—one large, wrapped in ivory silk, the other in polished wood.
He placed them before us with the kind of care reserved for heirlooms or explosives.
"Your wedding gifts," Charles announced.
Celine looked startled. "Gifts?"
"Something old, something meaningful." He opened the wooden box first—inside was a pair of vintage Montblanc pens, engraved with our initials. "Symbolic. For the contracts you'll be signing in the future. Marriage is one kind of union. Business is another."
Then he gestured to the silk-wrapped package. "And this belonged to your grandmother."
Celine opened it slowly, revealing a beautifully embroidered quilt—floral patterns hand-stitched with the initials of every Aldridge marriage stitched at the corner.
"It's tradition," he said softly. "Now your initials will join the others."
Celine's expression faltered just slightly, a flicker of something I couldn't place—surprise, maybe. Or sentiment.
We thanked him.
We always knew how to play our part.
---
After dinner, Celine excused herself to the garden with Evelyn. I stayed behind with my grandfather in the study, the scent of cigars clinging to the wood-paneled walls.
He poured another glass. "She's sharp, your wife. Ambitious. Reminds me of your mother."
"She doesn't want this," I said quietly.
"Neither did I, once. But what we want rarely matters. What we build—that's what remains."
I watched the amber swirl in his glass. "You're pushing too hard."
He gave me a look. "I'm preparing you."
"For what?"
"For the empire you'll inherit. And for the woman who may one day stand beside you—not behind."
I didn't respond.
Because I didn't know which future scared me more: the one where we failed to make this work, or the one where we did.