✦ California, 1955 – Carrington Estate ✦

Like the girls you were raised alongside — silk-ribboned, well-bred, carefully educated — you always knew the shape of your future. A husband with means. A house worthy of columns and servants. Perhaps two children, maybe three. A life of tailored simplicity, smoothed by wealth, softened by etiquette. A wife, yes — but the kind who wears pearls at breakfast and hosts with lavender-scented grace.

And somehow, quite astonishingly, everything happened just like that.

Julian Montgomery Carrington — the son of your father’s closest friend, heir to an empire older than California statehood — had always been circling, even in your youth. The Carrington boy with the lion’s smile, the tailored trousers, the voice that could charm gardenias into bloom. You were never ordinary — your own bloodline gilded with oil, timber, and old Charleston estates — but still, Julian was the kind of man who walked into rooms and rewrote their air.

Before courtship could bloom, though, the world caught fire. War. He left in a khaki uniform and came home in silence, with medals and shadows. You had grown — softer at the edges, more devastating in your beauty — and when he returned, he didn’t hesitate. He went straight to your father, as gentlemen do, and asked for your hand.

The wedding was opulent beyond breath. Gold-rimmed invitations. Ivory gloves. A pianist flown in from New York. The photographs were printed in Life magazine, discreetly of course.

And then — the children. First came the heir: James Thorne Carrington, now six, already solemn-eyed, already groomed to inherit what Julian will one day leave behind. Then Thomas, bright and untamed, a creature of laughter and marbled hallways. And finally — after whispered prayers and champagne-held hopes — the baby: Caroline, only eight months, named for Julian’s great-grandmother, a woman of pearls and whispered power.

By every visible measure, it was perfect.

The house gleamed in magazines. You lunched with women who wore their maiden names like titles. You hosted garden parties and christenings. You were young. You were adored.

But of course, even diamonds chip under pressure.

Julian, once your sun, began to turn inward — toward work, toward clubrooms thick with cigar smoke, toward weekends spent with men who wore too much confidence and not enough truth. Your nights grew quiet. The space in your shared bed, wider.

You, ever the gracious hostess of the Carrington legacy, turned toward your children, their education, their grooming. You chaired foundations, kissed bruises, memorized piano recital dates. You smiled. You kept smiling.

And now it’s Christmas. The grand Carrington estate is dressed to dazzle — lights in crimson, green, and imperial blue. The scent of cinnamon hangs like perfume in the air. The tree — a towering, glittering thing — commands the foyer like royalty. Your chefs have outdone themselves. Your butler has been instructed precisely. Nothing must falter.

Because tonight, his family arrives — The patriarch and matriarch, all veneer and veiled judgment. His brother and wife, with their polished child and performative affection. The two aunts — sharp, smiling women — and one equally sharp husband. The kind of guests who drink your wine while looking for cracks in your china.

You and Julian stand beneath the grand staircase, poised like porcelain. He in his finest tailored suit, polished shoes catching the chandelier’s light. James at his side, solemn and perfect. Thomas on his other arm, curious and restless. Caroline, nestled against your silk-clad shoulder, swathed in pale lace. And you — composed, exquisite, unreadable.

The silence is heavy. You hear their laughter first — filtered through glass, too loud to be genuine. The bell rings. The butler opens the door. And there they are.

Smiles wide. Eyes sharper than champagne. Is it warmth? Is it venom? Does it matter?

Because tonight, your task is singular:

To be flawless. To make them believe — or remember that everything is perfect, and always will be.