Chapter 3 — Sparks at the Rosenthal
Alternating
The hum of conversation enveloped the grand ballroom of the Rosenthal Hotel like a swarm of bees. Crystal chandeliers refracted light across polished marble floors, casting shimmering patterns onto the faces of men and women cloaked in designer suits and gowns. The air smelled of expensive perfume, champagne, and something less tangible—ambition cloaked in deceit.
Skylar Morgan stood near the edge of the room, clutching a half-empty glass of sparkling water. The tailored emerald-green dress she wore clung to her frame, elegant but suffocating, its rigid perfection a pointed reminder of her father’s control. She felt trapped under its weight, every bead of the dress a tether to the life she despised. Her sharp green eyes scanned the crowd, cataloging every fake smile and overly rehearsed laugh. The room wasn’t just full of people—it was teeming with masks, carefully curated personas concealing the rot beneath. These were the very faces her anonymous blog sought to dismantle.
Her father’s hand rested on her shoulder, his grip firm and commanding. “Remember what I told you,” Governor Richard Morgan murmured into her ear, the smile on his face never wavering as he nodded to a passing senator. “You represent this family. Don’t embarrass me.”
The words were barbed, but Skylar only tilted her head and offered him a saccharine smile laced with mockery. “Of course, Father,” she said sweetly, her tone calculated to cut.
The governor’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. Instead, his attention shifted as Senator Calloway approached, his son trailing close behind. They moved with the confidence of men accustomed to commanding the room, their polished exteriors in stark contrast to the chaos they left in their wake.
Skylar recognized Tristan Calloway instantly. He was taller than she’d expected, his tailored navy suit fitting him like a glove. His dark brown hair was slightly disheveled, as though he’d spent one too many minutes running a hand through it in frustration. But it was his piercing blue eyes that held her attention. They scanned the room with practiced detachment, a look she recognized all too well—a carefully crafted mask, just like everyone else here.
He looked bored, she noted with some satisfaction, and just a little bit irritated. Good. Misery loved company.
“Governor Morgan,” Senator Calloway greeted, his New York accent crisp and authoritative. “Always a pleasure.”
“Senator Calloway,” her father replied, his voice smooth as silk. “And Tristan. It’s been too long.”
Tristan smiled politely, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Governor. Skylar.”
Skylar inclined her head, letting her lips curve into a half-smile that didn’t bother hiding her disinterest. “Tristan,” she replied, her tone bordering on dismissive.
Her father’s hand tightened on her shoulder, a silent warning, but she ignored him, her focus lingering on Tristan. Something about him grated on her nerves—the perfectly polished way he held himself, the veneer of perfection that screamed privilege. He probably thought he was better than everyone else here, she decided, just another cog in the machine of power she was fighting to dismantle.
Senator Calloway continued to talk, his voice a practiced blend of charm and authority, but Skylar tuned him out, her thoughts drifting to the hypocrisy of the event. This gala was nothing more than a performance, a glittering stage for the powerful to exchange favors and pat themselves on the back while the world outside burned. The disconnect was nauseating.
“Skylar and Tristan should get to know each other better,” Senator Calloway suggested, his tone all business. “After all, it’s important for the next generation to build strong connections. Don’t you agree, Richard?”
Her father nodded. “Absolutely. Skylar, why don’t you and Tristan mingle for a bit? I’m sure you’ll find plenty to talk about.”
Skylar’s stomach twisted, but she didn’t let it show. Instead, she smiled sweetly and linked her arm through Tristan’s before he could protest. “Of course,” she said brightly, leading him away from the two older men.
The second they were out of earshot, her smile dropped, and she released his arm as though it burned her. “You don’t have to pretend to like me,” she said, her voice low and sharp. “Let’s just get through this without any unnecessary small talk, shall we?”
Tristan raised an eyebrow, his expression cool and unreadable. “Fine by me,” he said, his tone clipped.
They walked in silence for a moment, weaving through clusters of partygoers. Skylar caught snippets of conversation—talk of stock markets, polling numbers, and charity efforts that had more to do with optics than actual impact. The hypocrisy made her skin crawl, anger simmering just beneath the surface.
“Let me guess,” Tristan said suddenly, breaking the silence. “You hate these events.”
Skylar snorted softly. “What gave it away? The dead look in my eyes or the fact that I’d rather be anywhere else right now?”
A corner of his mouth twitched, but he quickly smoothed his expression. “So, why not just leave?”
She stopped, turning to him with a sharp look. “Some of us actually fight back instead of just playing along.”
His gaze lingered on her for a beat too long, his blue eyes narrowing slightly as though he were trying to figure her out. Then he shrugged. “Fair enough.”
Their tenuous truce was interrupted by the sharp, condescending voice of a woman nearby. “Skylar Morgan, isn’t it?”
Skylar turned to find a blonde woman in her mid-thirties, her smile more predatory than friendly. “I’ve heard so much about you,” the woman continued, her tone dripping with insincerity. “You’re a... blogger, aren’t you?”
Skylar’s stomach tightened. For a split second, her mind raced—had she slipped up? Did this woman know her secret? But she forced a laugh, masking her panic with practiced ease. “Oh, you know how the media loves to exaggerate. I wouldn’t call myself a blogger. Just someone with strong opinions.”
The woman’s smile widened, but before she could press further, Skylar turned to Tristan, her green eyes daring him to play along. “Tristan, didn’t you say you wanted to check out the auction items? Let’s go.”
He hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Right. The auction. Let’s go.”
They walked briskly away, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife.
“Blogger?” Tristan asked once they were out of earshot, his voice low.
“None of your business,” Skylar snapped.
“Touchy subject, I see.”
She shot him a glare. “Why do you care? You don’t even know me.”
“Exactly,” he said, his tone maddeningly calm. “Which is why I’m curious.”
Skylar stopped walking and turned to face him, crossing her arms over her chest. “Listen, Calloway, I get it. You’re here to make Daddy proud, just like me. So let’s drop the act, play nice for the cameras, and leave each other alone.”
Tristan’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something—anger? hurt?—crossing his face. But before he could respond, a camera flash lit up the space between them.
“Perfect,” a voice said, and they turned to see a journalist grinning at them, his camera poised. “A little tension between the governor’s daughter and the senator’s son. Love it. Care to comment?”
Skylar groaned, and Tristan muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse.
“No comment,” Skylar said firmly, grabbing Tristan’s arm and pulling him away from the reporter.
Once they were out of sight, she released him and sighed. “Great. Now we’re going to be a viral moment.”
Tristan rubbed the back of his neck, his expression conflicted. “Could be worse.”
“Worse?” she echoed incredulously. “How could this possibly get worse?”
He glanced at her, his blue eyes calm but calculating. “We could actually hate each other.”
Skylar blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. For a moment, she didn’t know what to say.
“Well,” she said finally, her voice softer than before, “give it time. The night’s still young.”
And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving Tristan standing alone in the glow of the chandeliers, watching her retreating figure with an expression he couldn’t quite place.
As the night wore on, whispers about their confrontation rippled through the room like wildfire, phones raised to capture every stolen glance and hushed word. Neither of them knew it yet, but their lives had just collided in a way that neither could ignore.
