Part 2: Marisol lowered her eyes. She could feel every guest staring. Every member of the staff trying not to stare. Every inch of her dignity being peeled away in public.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “It won’t happen again.”

“You’re right about that,” Celeste said. “Because you won’t be here for it to happen again.”

Marisol looked up.

Celeste stepped closer, careful not to let the hem of her dress touch the frosting. “I want you out tonight. You and your child. This is my future home, not a shelter for employees who can’t manage their personal problems.”

A whisper moved through the room.

Marisol’s arms tightened around Daisy. “Miss Vale, please. It’s almost dark. I don’t have anywhere arranged tonight. I can leave in the morning if Mr. Blackwell decides—”

“I’m deciding.”

“This is Mr. Blackwell’s house,” Grace said from the edge of the room.

Celeste’s eyes snapped toward her. “Not for long.”

The words hung there, uglier than the mess on the floor.

Then another voice came from behind the guests.

“No,” Caleb Blackwell said. “It is my house.”

The crowd parted before anyone realized they were moving.

Caleb stood in the ballroom entrance in a charcoal suit, his tie loosened as if he had come directly from the airport. At forty-two, he had the kind of presence that made loud men lower their voices without knowing why. He had built Blackwell Development from a two-person office into a national empire of hotels, housing projects, logistics centers, and private estates. Newspapers called him ruthless. Business magazines called him visionary. Charity boards called him generous. The staff at Blackwell House called him fair, which was rarer and meant more.

His eyes moved over the room, taking in the ruined cake, the guests, the trembling staff, Celeste’s cold face, and Marisol kneeling in buttercream with her child in her arms.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Celeste lifted her chin. “Caleb, thank God you’re here. This is exactly what I warned you about. I’ve been patient, but that child destroyed the cake. In front of everyone.”

Caleb did not look at the cake again.

He looked at Daisy.

“Is she hurt?”

Celeste blinked. “What?”

He walked past his fiancée and crouched on the marble in front of Marisol and Daisy, uncaring that his expensive trousers touched frosting. His voice softened. “Daisy, sweetheart, did anything fall on you?”

Daisy peeked at him over Marisol’s shoulder. Her brown eyes were swollen with tears. She shook her head.

“Did you cut your hands?”

Another shake.

“Okay.” Caleb exhaled slowly. “Good.”

Celeste’s expression hardened. “Caleb, she ruined my birthday.”

Caleb stood. His face did not change quickly. That was one of the things that made him difficult to read. But Marisol saw something settle behind his eyes, something deep and final.

“A cake can be replaced,” he said.

Celeste stared at him. “You cannot be serious.”

“I’m serious about a lot of things tonight.”

The guests shifted uneasily. Someone near the back quietly put down a champagne glass.

Celeste moved closer to him, lowering her voice with the confidence of a woman who expected privacy to form around wealth. “Do not embarrass me in front of these people.”

Caleb’s gaze stayed on her. “Then don’t ask me to throw a mother and her child into the dark over a mistake.”

Celeste’s cheeks flushed. “A mistake?…”

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