I Never Told My Fiancé I Owned Three Companies. He Always Thought I Was Simply A Freelance Designer. When He Introduced Me To His Very Well-Connected Family, I Let Them Keep Believing That. Then His Father Noticed My Last Name.

Her husband appeared from the next room—tall and silver-haired, with the easy confidence of a man accustomed to being deferred to.

“Ah,” he said, extending a hand. “So this is the designer.”

His handshake was firm, polite, but impersonal—like closing a deal.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Mitchell.”

“Richard, please,” he corrected. “We’re all family here. Daniel’s told us so much about you.”

We all glanced at Daniel, who stood behind them, smiling nervously, his hands tucked into his pockets.

“All good things, I hope.”

Richard chuckled. “Mostly.”

They led me through the foyer into the living room, where every surface gleamed—glass, chrome, ivory. The fireplace was framed by two enormous abstract canvases, and the rug beneath my feet looked like something that had never once been stepped on. A decanter of vintage wine sat waiting on a marble tray.

“Such understated style you have,” Eleanor said as she motioned for me to sit. “It’s refreshing these days to meet someone who doesn’t chase trends.”

“Thank you,” I replied, lowering myself carefully into a cream armchair. “I like things that last.”

“Yes, of course,” she said smoothly. “Timelessness over fashion. I admire that. Though sometimes,” she added lightly, “the right accessories can make a woman’s simplicity shine even brighter.”

Her gaze flicked toward my bare wrists and neck.

I smiled. “I suppose I haven’t found the right ones yet.”

Richard poured me a glass of wine before I could decline.

“You’ll like this. It’s a 2012 Bordeaux. Cost me a small fortune.”

“Then I’ll make sure not to waste a drop,” I said with a nod.

Eleanor laughed again—that polite, brittle laugh that sounds like fine china tapping against glass.

“Daniel mentioned you live in Capitol Hill, correct?”

“Yes. Near the park, above a bakery.”

“Oh, that area’s… artistic,” she said, as though the word itself carried dust. “Full of charm and street murals. We used to attend a fundraiser there once a year.”

“It’s a beautiful community,” I said evenly. “Lots of artists, small cafés, people who wave when you walk by. It feels alive.”

“Of course,” she said. “It must be inspiring. Though I imagine parking is dreadful.”

I took a sip of wine to hide my smile. “It is. That’s why I bike.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “You bike. In Seattle.”

“Every day,” I said. “Rain or shine.”