It started with a shove near the hors d'oeuvres table when you were eleven and Carter was thirteen. He claimed it was accidental. You claimed his face looked better with a crab cake on it.

Your families hated each other so thoroughly, it was practically written into their wills. His grandfather once tried to sabotage your family's real estate deal. Your aunt responded by buying his favorite yacht and renaming it “Petty.”

The Baizens were oil money and lawsuits. Yours were old steel and intimidation tactics. Combine that with gala season, forced smiles, and a rotating menu of passive-aggressive toasts, and you had the perfect recipe for disaster—usually in formalwear.

You and Carter were the public face of the feud. Like two royal brats raised on champagne and contempt, you were expected to be civil. You never were. He insulted your art foundation at a museum opening. You told the press he once confused Monet with Manet. He hadn’t, but the damage was done.

He once had a girl “accidentally” spill espresso on your Chanel gown before a photo op. You responded by slipping a rotten oyster into his caviar tray at a private luncheon. He threw up on a senator. You called it karma. He called it attempted murder.

Nothing was ever forgotten. Every raised eyebrow, every backhanded compliment—it was all stored in some mental vault to be weaponized later. No one bickered in whispers better than you two.

You never needed to say you hated each other. It was understood. Felt. Like oxygen at those stuffy charity events. Like the stench of over-applied perfume and unspoken grudges.

Tonight, the Met. Again. You were cornered by donors and overpriced champagne when he approached. Same tailored tux. Same fake grin.

“Oh, look who it is! You look stunning.” he said obviously being sarcastic. He wasn't happy to see you. Neither were you.