Part 3 ( Juliet )

I skim through the finalized guest list on my tablet, barely processing the names. CEOs, dignitaries, billionaires, the usual suspects. People desperate to be part of the Baldwin Lux circle, people who pretend like they belong when really, I'm the one who decides who does.

I exhale, setting the tablet down. I should be focused, but my head is elsewhere. The same question that's been gnawing at me since brunch with Mia.

Are you happy?

It was stupid, really. Mia always overthinks things, always tries to get under my skin like she's searching for something I'm not willing to give. Happiness is irrelevant. What matters is control, success, dominance. I built this empire, and I run it. That should be enough.

Claire steps into my office without knocking, she knows better than to waste time on pleasantries. "Ms. Baldwin, everything is set for the gala masquerade ball. The press is already buzzing."

I nod. "Good." Glancing back at my laptop.

I continue scrolling through my laptop, scrolling past RSVPs from billionaires, royals, and celebrities, approving or rejecting them without hesitation.

I stop at one name, Anthony Vasquez. Huh. I don't remember personally inviting him, but he's useful. Sports empires, major real estate holdings, influence in circles even I don't control yet. He stays.

Claire rattles off updates as I review the list. "We finalized the floral arrangements, and security is increasing for the VIP section. A few last-minute requests came in, but I filtered out the irrelevant ones."

I hum.

I barely register the rest as I sign off on the final details. The gala is in two days. Everything is in place.

Before I can think too much about it, my phone vibrates. Mia.

I smirk, answering. "Let me guess, you're calling to say something annoying."

Mia scoffs. "Wow, incredible greeting. No, Juliet, I'm calling to make sure you're still alive because your assistant had to schedule this call like I'm some kind of investor."

I chuckle, rubbing my temple. "I'm busy, Mia. This event isn't going to plan itself."

"Yes, because the world might end if Baldwin Lux throws a mediocre party," she deadpans.

"It would."

She groans. "God, your exhaustion makes me exhausted."

I smile to myself, leaning back in my chair. It's been years, but Mia is still the only person who talks to me like this. Like I'm still just Juliet, not Juliet Baldwin, the woman who controls luxury itself.

"So," she continues, "are you actually going to be fun at this gala, or should I prepare myself for 'CEO Mode' the whole night?"

I glance at my calendar, already knowing the answer. "Mia, I don't have time to be—"

"Wrong answer."

I roll my eyes. "Let me finish. I don't have time to be reckless, but I did book you and Aiden a table."

There's a beat of silence before she bursts into laughter. "Wait. You...what?"

"I booked you a table," I repeat, amused by how genuinely shocked she sounds. "Front row. No press access, so you won't have to deal with cameras while you get drunk off my champagne."

"Okay, what's the catch?"

"No catch," I say smoothly. "Just my way of showing appreciation for your lovely friendship."

Mia snorts. "Bullshit. You just don't want me in general admission embarrassing you."

"That, too," I admit.

glance at my planner, flipping through the schedule. "Oh, one more thing. It's a masquerade ball."

There's a beat of silence before Mia hums. "A masquerade ball? Fancy and interesting."

I roll my eyes. "Not really. Just a bunch of celebrities and billionaires hiding behind masks, pretending to be mysterious."

She laughs again, but there's warmth in it. "Well, I accept. But only if you promise to actually enjoy yourself for once instead of standing in the corner judging people."

I hum, pretending to think. "Unlikely."

"Ugh, Juliet."

I glance at the time. "You're distracting me."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll see you at the gala, Your Highness."

I shake my head as I hang up.

Mia doesn't know it, but for a moment, just a moment, her voice made the pressure in my chest ease.

Just a little.

-

The penthouse is silent when I step inside, the weight of the day pressing into my shoulders. I toe off my heels near the entrance, the soft click of Louboutins against marble the only sound echoing through the cavernous space.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the living room, showcasing the dazzling skyline of Manhattan, the city glittering beneath the night sky. A view most would kill for. A view I used to admire.

Now? It's just there. Like everything else in my life. Expensive. Beautiful. Empty.

I roll my neck, loosening the tension that's settled in my muscles, and make my way toward the bar. I pour myself a glass of Macallan, the amber liquid swirling in the crystal tumbler as I settle onto one of the sleek leather couches.

No music. No television. No background noise.

Just me and the silence.

My phone vibrates on the coffee table. I glance at it. Mia.

I don't pick up.

I know exactly what she'll say. Go out with us. Do something fun. Breathe a little, Baldwin.

But what Mia doesn't understand, what no one seems to understand, is that I don't have time to breathe.

I built this empire from the ground up. Every decision, every move, every billion-dollar deal was made with precision and control. There's no space in my life for recklessness. No room for mistakes.

I bring the glass to my lips, letting the whisky burn its way down my throat.

Mistakes.

I don't make them anymore.

And yet, as I sit here in my empty penthouse, sipping expensive whisky with no one to share it with, I wonder if this, this hollow, routine existence, isn't its own kind of mistake.

My assistant, Claire, sent me an itinerary for tomorrow. A schedule packed with meetings, contracts to sign, clients to entertain.

It's always like this.

Wake up. Work. Meetings. Work. Dinner alone. Work. Sleep.

Repeat.

I have everything i need. The power, the control, the ability to dictate the lives of the elite. To sit at the top of the world and own it.

I exhale sharply and set my glass down a little harder than necessary. The frustration in my chest is unfamiliar, clawing, unwelcome.

I make my way to the kitchen, my bare feet padding against the cool marble floors. The fridge is fully stocked, but I stare at it for a long moment, uninterested in anything inside.

Eventually, I settle on a meal delivery, some overpriced five-star dining experience that will arrive in thirty minutes, plated to perfection, cold and lifeless.

Fitting.

I pour myself another drink as I wait, leaning against the counter, staring out at the city. The distant sounds of honking cars and nightlife filter through the windows, a reminder that the world is still moving, still living.

I should be living. I have everything. Everything.

Then why the fuck does it feel like I have nothing?

My phone buzzes again.

Mia: You're avoiding me. I don't like it.

I sigh, rubbing my temple. I don't have the energy for this tonight.

-

The food arrives. I sit at my dining table, the ridiculously elegant setup of imported porcelain and hand-crafted silverware feeling excessive for someone eating alone.

I take a bite. It's good. It's always good. But I barely taste it.

I scroll through my phone mindlessly as I eat. Emails, investment reports, a message from my mother reminding me about the gala.

I pause on a news article.

"Ellie Crawford's Move to the Jets: What It Means for the Future of the NFL."

A photo of her, mid-game, sweat-slicked and grinning, dominates the screen.

My stomach tightens.

I set my phone down and push my plate away, no longer hungry.

I don't let myself think about it. About her.

I drain the rest of my drink and lean back in my chair, staring up at the high ceilings, the empty space around me stretching, suffocating.

I wonder what it would be like to trade all of this, this empire, this untouchable life, for something simpler.

Something real.

The thought is dangerous.

So I crush it and pour myself another drink.

-

The sharp chime of my alarm cuts through the silence, precise and unforgiving. I blink against the morning light filtering through the sheer curtains, my body moving before my mind fully catches up.

I sit up slowly, rolling my shoulders as I take in my surroundings. The penthouse is still, untouched, every surface pristine. It looks like no one actually lives here.

I stand, padding barefoot into the bathroom, the cool marble sending a shock up my spine. I turn on the sink, splashing cold water onto my face before meeting my reflection in the mirror.

I look... fine. No remnants of last night. No redness in my eyes, no sluggishness in my movements. The exhaustion is there, lurking beneath the surface, but it's masked well. I don't allow hangovers. I don't allow anything that makes me less than perfect.

I reach for my skincare products, moving through the motions with practiced ease. Moisturizer. Concealer. A swipe of liner, etc. The transformation is subtle but effective. Within minutes, I look exactly as I should, polished, precise, untouchable.

When I step into my closet, the options are endless, but I barely think about it. A fitted black blazer, a black pencil skirt, and a silk blouse. Power woven into fabric. The kind of outfit that makes people sit up straighter when I enter a room.

I slip into my heels, fasten a Cartier watch around my wrist, and smooth my hands down the front of my jacket.

By the time I take one final glance in the mirror, I've erased the remnants of last night completely.

No exhaustion. No doubt. No hesitation.

Just me.

I grab my bag, slide on my sunglasses, and step out the door.

-

The gala venue is already a masterpiece of extravagance by the time I arrive, but it's not perfect. Not yet.

The grand ballroom is illuminated by towering chandeliers, their crystal facets scattering gold light across the high ceilings. A soft orchestral melody hums through the air, setting the tone for the night, elegant, exclusive, untouchable. Staff move like ghosts, setting tables with pristine precision, aligning silverware to millimeter accuracy, adjusting floral arrangements so that every petal sits exactly where it should.

It's controlled chaos. Just how I like it.

I step out of my car, the black limo pulling away the second my heels touch the ground. Claire is already waiting for me at the entrance, iPad in hand, sharp as ever.

"Ms. Baldwin," she greets, falling into step beside me as I move through the grand entryway, scanning everything with a practiced eye.

"What's left?" I ask, not bothering with pleasantries.

She doesn't blink. "The ice sculptures just arrived. The catering team is plating the first round of hors d'oeuvres for final approval. Security is in position, but I had them double-check the guest list to ensure no one uninvited gets in."

"Good."

I glance up at the ceiling. The grand chandelier, a custom-made piece designed specifically for tonight, hangs flawlessly in place. The walls are lined with silk drapes in deep, moody colors, amplifying the luxury of it all. The centerpieces on each table are extravagant but tasteful, designed to be admired, not obstruct conversation.

"Where's the event director?" I ask, already scanning the room.

Claire nods toward a flustered woman near the ballroom doors, dressed in all black, earpiece in place, looking one second away from spiraling.

I make my way toward her. The moment she spots me, her entire demeanor shifts, shoulders stiffening, expression smoothing into forced calm.

"Ms. Baldwin," she greets, her voice controlled but tight.

"What's the issue?" I ask, cutting straight to the point.

She hesitates. I hate hesitation.

"The imported champagne shipment from Paris is delayed," she admits, eyes darting to her clipboard. "We have enough for the first hour, but—"

I interrupt her.

"Fix it." My voice is cool, unwavering. "If you have to airlift a case in, do it. I don't care how. Just handle it."

She nods quickly, already reaching for her earpiece to issue orders. I turn before she can say anything else, my eyes sweeping the room.

The staff notices me. I can feel it. The way they straighten their postures, the way their movements become even more precise under my gaze. They don't fear me, fear is for tyrants. They respect me. Because they know I expect nothing but excellence.

"Florals?" I ask, my tone even, as I scan the towering arrangements placed along the edges of the room.

Claire doesn't hesitate. "All white orchids, per your request. Some of the arrangements weren't symmetrical, but I had them adjusted."

I nod approvingly. "Good."

She follows as I move toward the dance floor, a sprawling expanse of polished marble that gleams under the soft glow of the chandeliers. The musicians are setting up their instruments in the orchestra pit. They barely acknowledge me, but I know they feel my presence.

I stop by the head event coordinator. "The music," I say, tone measured. "I don't want anything too loud, too modern, or too disruptive. This isn't a nightclub. It's a masquerade."

The man nods hastily. "Of course, Ms. Baldwin. We've prepared a selection of classical and contemporary orchestral arrangements."

I study him for a moment, searching for any sign of incompetence. There is none. "Fine."

I turn away, my gaze shifting to the massive black-and-gold archways leading to the VIP lounge. The lighting is dimmer there, more intimate, designed for whispered conversations between people who shape industries and move economies with a single decision.

Everything is coming together. Everything is perfect.

"Ms. Baldwin?" Claire's voice is steady.

I glance at her.

"The press is asking for a quote ahead of tonight."

I sigh, rolling my shoulders. "Prepare a statement. Something about exclusivity, legacy, and the art of luxury."

She nods.

I survey the room one last time, taking it all in. The weight of it. The sheer magnitude of what I've built.

And yet, standing in the middle of it all, surrounded by perfection, I feel nothing.

Not yet. Not until the masks come on. Not until the night truly begins.