The Invitation from Hell
"There are certain things you don't wish on your worst enemy. Margaret Harper's formal dinner parties are one of them."
I stared at the embossed invitation Margaret had shoved into my hand earlier that morning. The cursive font practically screamed mandatory attendance.
"This isn't a dinner. It's an ambush," I muttered, tossing the card onto the counter.
Jackson looked up from his bowl of cereal, spoon halfway to his mouth. "Formal dinner? Fancy people? Open bar?" He grinned. "I'm in."
I groaned. "No, you're not. This is serious, Jackson. Margaret invited the board members to 'prove' that everything's fine. Which means you need to be on your best behavior."
Jackson put his spoon down, feigning offense. "Mrs. Carter, I'm always on my best behavior."
I gave him a look that could cut steel. "Your best behavior got me banned from a café last week."
"Okay, fair, but that was a misunderstanding. How was I supposed to know the croissants weren't free samples?"
"Promise me you'll act like a normal human being tonight," I said, crossing my arms.
Jackson saluted me with his cereal spoon. "Scout's honor."
I already regretted everything.
When we arrived at the Harper estate, Margaret greeted us at the door with her signature tight-lipped smile that could cut glass. She took one look at Jackson's slightly loosened tie and raised an eyebrow.
"Charming," she said in a tone that suggested the opposite. "Lila, darling, can you not even get him to dress properly?"
"Nice to see you too, Margaret," Jackson said, his grin widening. "Don't worry—I'm saving my best charm for the investors."
Margaret looked like she was considering murder but simply sighed. "Just… try not to ruin anything."
"No promises," Jackson said under his breath as we followed her inside.
The dining room was a masterpiece of intimidation. Crystal chandeliers, floral centerpieces that probably cost more than my car, and enough silverware to make me question if anyone actually needed four forks.
"Wow," Jackson whispered, leaning toward me. "Is this a dinner or a museum exhibit?"
"Behave," I hissed, elbowing him.
He picked up a tiny, decorative spoon and turned it over in his hand. "What's this one for? Soup for ants?"
"Jackson!"
He grinned and set the spoon down, but not before pretending to polish it on his sleeve.
The investors trickled in, all of them oozing self-importance and cologne. Margaret flitted around the room, greeting each guest with fake warmth and the occasional tinkling laugh that made my teeth hurt.
Jackson, meanwhile, was doing his best to "fit in."
"Nice tie," he said to one investor, clapping him on the back so hard the poor man nearly choked. "Is that silk? Looks expensive. Did it come with free stocks?"
The investor blinked, clearly unsure if Jackson was joking or just insane.
I groaned and pulled Jackson aside. "What part of normal human behavior do you not understand?"
"I'm being nice," he protested. "That guy loves his tie. I'm just giving him the validation he craves."
I buried my face in my hands.
As everyone took their seats, Margaret rose from her chair, glass in hand, to deliver a carefully rehearsed speech.
"Thank you all for joining us tonight," she began, her voice as smooth as butter. "This dinner is an opportunity to strengthen our partnerships and reaffirm the Harper family's commitment to excellence."
Jackson leaned toward me, whispering, "Does she always talk like she's narrating a corporate training video?"
I elbowed him, but it was hard to suppress a laugh.
Dinner began, and within minutes, Jackson managed to charm—or bewilder—half the table.
"So," he said to one investor, gesturing with his fork, "you're in real estate? That's awesome. I once flipped a mattress. Does that count as property management?"
The investor stared at him, clearly unsure how to respond. Meanwhile, I focused on not choking on my water.
"Jackson," I whispered sharply, "stop talking."
"Why? I'm killing it," he whispered back, grinning.
Things took a turn when Jackson decided to engage with Harold Whitmore, the most pompous investor at the table. Harold was the type of man who enjoyed hearing himself talk and had likely never been challenged in his life.
"So, Harold," Jackson said, leaning back in his chair. "What's your secret? How do you make money and keep your hairline so… intact?"
Harold blinked, clearly unsure if he'd just been complimented or insulted. "Well, I—"
"And that yacht of yours," Jackson continued, his tone mock-serious. "How many people can it hold? Just you and your ego, or do you let other passengers onboard?"
The table erupted in a mixture of laughter and awkward coughing. Margaret looked like she wanted to crawl under the table.
"Jackson," I hissed, kicking him under the table.
"What?" he whispered back, grinning. "I'm bonding."
Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, Bianca Monroe appeared in the doorway, looking effortlessly glamorous and infuriatingly smug.
"Bianca," Margaret said, her smile tightening. "What a… surprise."
"Margaret, darling," Bianca cooed, sweeping into the room like a supermodel on a runway. "I just had to stop by. I couldn't miss an opportunity to catch up with old friends."
Her eyes locked on Jackson, and I felt my stomach twist.
"Jackson," she said, her voice dripping with sweetness. "It's so good to see you again."
"Bianca," Jackson said, his tone flat. "What are you doing here?"
"Just passing through," she said innocently, but the way her gaze lingered on him made me want to throw my wine at her.
As dinner continued, I noticed Bianca sidling up to Margaret, their heads bent together in hushed conversation. My suspicion meter went through the roof.
"Are they plotting something?" I muttered to Jackson.
"Probably planning world domination," he replied, cutting into his steak. "Or deciding which one of them gets to ruin our lives first."
I couldn't shake the feeling that whatever they were whispering about, it wasn't good.
As the evening dragged on, Bianca's sugary sweet laugh became the auditory equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. Every time Jackson said something—no matter how insignificant—Bianca would giggle as though he'd just told the world's funniest joke.
"Oh, Jackson," she cooed, leaning slightly toward him, her hand resting a little too close to his on the table. "You've always been so witty."
I gripped my wine glass like it was the only thing keeping me from lunging across the table. My foot twitched under the table, ready to "accidentally" kick her chair.
Jackson, oblivious to my growing frustration, smirked. "Yeah, witty is definitely the word people use for me."
Bianca leaned in further. "Oh, absolutely. You were always the life of the party."
The word always made my jaw clench. Was she really trying to paint herself as some long-lost part of his life? She wasn't just pushing boundaries—she was steamrolling right over them.
I couldn't take it anymore. Slamming my napkin onto the table, I stood abruptly, plastering on a tight smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Bianca, can I have a word?"
The entire table froze. Jackson arched an eyebrow at me, clearly confused, while Bianca's smile faltered for half a second before she recovered.
"Of course, darling," she said, following me out of the dining room. I could feel Margaret's eyes boring into the back of my head, but I didn't care.
I dragged Bianca into the hallway and spun to face her, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. She stood there with that infuriatingly perfect posture, her head tilted slightly like she was waiting for me to entertain her.
"What are you doing here?" I demanded, keeping my voice low but firm.
Bianca blinked innocently. "What do you mean? I was invited."
I narrowed my eyes. "By who?"
Her lips curved into a slow, smug smile. "Margaret thought it would be nice to… reconnect. She said it might help ease tensions. Isn't that thoughtful of her?"
Thoughtful. Sure. That was one word for it. Another word? Sabotage.
"Well, whatever you're trying to do, it's not going to work," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
Bianca's smile widened, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "Oh, darling, you sound so defensive. Are you worried about something?"
"No," I snapped, taking a step closer. "I just don't like people who show up uninvited and play games."
Bianca tilted her head, pretending to think. "Games? Oh no, sweetheart. This isn't a game. This is… closure."
Before I could respond, she breezed past me, leaving me standing there, fuming.
While I was dealing with Bianca, Jackson had excused himself to grab another drink. He wandered toward the kitchen, but his steps slowed when he heard voices coming from the adjoining study.
"I'm telling you, this marriage isn't sustainable," Margaret's sharp voice carried through the partially open door. "Jackson is… well, he's charming, I'll give him that. But he's not a long-term solution. Lila needs to annul this marriage and focus on her future."
Jackson froze, the wine glass in his hand forgotten.
Another voice chimed in—one of the investors, Harold Whitmore, who Jackson had roasted earlier. "I have to agree. The tabloids are still buzzing about their antics. It's only a matter of time before it affects the Harper name. An annulment would send a clear message that Lila's back on track."
Margaret sighed. "Exactly. I've already spoken to her about it, but she's… resistant."
Jackson's jaw clenched. He wanted to burst into the room and demand to know why Margaret thought she had the right to decide Lila's future—or his, for that matter. But he stopped himself. Confronting her now would only make things worse. Instead, he turned on his heel and walked back to the dining room, his mind racing.
When Jackson returned to the dining room, his usual smirk was gone. He sat down silently, his expression unusually serious.
I noticed immediately. "What's wrong?" I whispered, leaning toward him.
"Nothing," he said shortly, picking at his plate with none of his usual enthusiasm.
I frowned. Jackson wasn't the type to brood. He was always the loudest, most confident person in the room. Seeing him like this felt… wrong.
"Jackson," I tried again, keeping my voice low, "did something happen?"
He looked at me, his eyes searching mine for a moment before he shook his head. "It's fine, Lila. Let's just get through dinner."
His tone was calm, but there was something underneath it—something sharp and guarded.
As dinner wound down, Margaret rose from her seat to give her closing remarks. She tapped her glass gently, commanding the room's attention with practiced ease.
"To family," she said, raising her glass, her eyes sweeping over the table. "And to the partnerships that keep us strong."
Jackson raised his glass as well, but the look he gave Margaret was anything but warm. His jaw was tight, his knuckles white as he gripped his glass.
I noticed the tension radiating off him and nudged his foot under the table. He glanced at me briefly, his expression softening just enough to let me know he was fine—at least for now.
Margaret continued her speech, oblivious to the storm brewing just beneath the surface.
The car ride home was quiet—too quiet. Jackson stared out the window, his fingers drumming against his knee.
"Alright, spill," I said finally, unable to take the silence any longer.
He hesitated, his jaw working like he was chewing over his words. "Margaret wants you to annul the marriage," he said eventually, his voice low but steady.
I felt like the air had been knocked out of me. "What?"
"I overheard her talking to one of the investors," he said, turning to face me. His expression was calm, but his eyes burned with something fierce. "She thinks I'm not good enough for you. That I'm… a liability."
I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. What could I even say? That Margaret was wrong? That she didn't mean it? Deep down, I knew that wouldn't be true.
"Well," Jackson said, his tone light but his eyes dark, "if she wants a reason to hate me, I'm happy to give her one."
I frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He didn't answer, just leaned back in his seat with a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes.
---
"Margaret wanted to end this marriage. But Jackson? He looked like he was ready to start a war—and I wasn't sure I was ready for the fallout."