The Laurent family estate sat alone at the top of a private hill, like it thought it was too good to share real estate with the rest of us. The only way up was a winding mountain road that made my stomach do backflips.
Lately, all anyone in Skyline could talk about was the elusive Laurent heir like he was the second coming of Gatsby with better hair. I’d heard his na so many tis it started to feel like subliminal ssaging. At this point, I had to see what all the fuss was about.
Traffic on the way up was a nightmare—Skyline’s elite crawling up the mountain like glittery ants in black-tinted SUVs. We weren’t even at the top when Yvaine told the driver to pull over.
She got out first. I followed, tugging my dress down an inch—not that it helped.
Technically, I should’ve arrived with Ashton to sell the whole engagent thing. But he’d texted to say he’d be running late.
Yvaine hooked her arm through mine as we headed up the rest of the way on foot.
The dress she’d picked for was... bold. A silver slip covered in enough rhinestone fringe to double as a disco ball. Definitely not my usual vibe, but tonight wasn’t about subtlety. The thing clung to like a second skin, sparkling even in the patchy mountain moonlight.
And the slit? Let’s just say one wrong move and I’d be charged with public indecency. I’d paired it with a pair of silver stilettos that made my calves look deadly and my ankles like they could cut glass.
With my hair pinned up and a pearl clip at the back, I almost passed for classy. Almost.
By the ti we reached the Laurent gates, I was trying not to stare but—bloody hell. Even the door was smug. Giant wrought iron monstrosity with gold accents and enough marble to pave a Greek tragedy.
Now, the Carlisles weren’t exactly paupers. Yvaine’s family practically ran Skyline’s social scene, and her brother had been expanding the family empire like Monopoly was a blood sport. Still, even she raised an eyebrow at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.
‘Is that... a fountain inside the gate?’ she whistled.
I nodded. ‘With flamingos. Real ones.’
We’d barely stepped into the ballroom when the crowd turned.
Heads swivelled. Mouths parted. Champagne flutes paused mid-air.
Yvaine made quite the entrance. She was in a strapless red number that hugged her like it had stock in her waistline, and I figured I didn’t look too shabby, either.
I scanned the room for Ashton. No sign of him. Just a sea of manicured won and Botoxed n pretending they weren’t checking each other’s net worth. I wondered which ones were Ashton’s family.
He’d apparently decided this circus of a party was the perfect setting for to et his parents for the first ti. Public enough that they wouldn’t throw drinks or start interrogating in full CIA mode. Crowded enough that any ‘nice to et you’ would be short, polite, and over before I had a chance to trip over soone’s surna.
While Yvaine and I were busy scanning the crowd, the crowd was busy scanning us.
Won looked like they were either about to complint us or commit a hate cri. n stared like they were seeing cleavage for the first ti.
‘That’s Yvaine Carlisle—Carlisle family heiress,’ soone whispered behind . ‘But the one next to her? Who is that?’
‘Mirabelle Vance,’ soone else chid in, sounding way too smug about it. ‘She’s marrying Rhys Granger. Wedding’s coming up soon. No wonder she’s glowing.’
‘Pfft, glowing my arse. Everyone knows she’s just clinging to Rhys. He doesn’t even like her. Got soone else on the side, apparently.’
‘Please. Mirabelle Vance is a nobody. Even her own family doesn’t back her. She’s just so barista, right? Latching onto Rhys is the only thing she’s got going for her.’
The ladies were whispering like we didn’t have ears. Low voices, but not low enough. Every word floated straight over to us like smoke from a bad barbecue.
Yvaine’s eyes snapped up. She took one look at the group and started striding over like she was about to stage a very well-dressed homicide.
‘Yvie,’ I grabbed her wrist. ‘Not here. It’s the Laurents’ party. You deck soone in this ballroom, we’ll be blacklisted from every gala till we’re sixty.’
She huffed. ‘They’re the ones running their mouths. If this bloody dress weren’t so tight, I’d be over there turning cheeks into handprints.’
Relatable.
But I wasn’t mad. Not really. Their gossip was so off-script it wasn’t even offensive—it was just outdated. The real social sharks would’ve already known Rhys and I were done.
Although... Rhys probably hadn’t told anyone. Definitely not Louisa. And definitely not the family friends who’d rat him out to her.
Because if there was one thing Rhys Granger couldn’t stomach, it was the idea that I walked away first.
‘Are you just going to let them get away with it?’ Yvaine seethed.
‘Nope.’
I used to swallow that crap. Every side-eye, every whisper, every woman who told I’d never be enough for him. I swallowed it because I thought Rhys was worth it.
Newsflash: he wasn’t.
So I picked up a glass of juice from the drinks table—cranberry, pretty and dangerous-looking—and strolled over to the cackling hens.
The one who’d been flapping her gums the most stood dead centre, swaddled in a lavender tulle monstrosity. Pearls everywhere. Big ones. Like she’d raided her grandma’s jewellery box.
As soon as they saw , they shut up. Blinked. Smiled like they weren’t just slandering .
I smiled too and held out the glass to Miss Lavender. ‘I would’ve offered you soap, but since I don’t carry that in my clutch, you’ll have to make do with cranberry juice.’
She didn’t take it. Just stared at the glass like it was about to bite her.
I didn’t move. Just stood there, hand extended. Waiting.
Silence stretched.
A few people turned to watch.
I didn’t move a muscle.
Whatever was on my face must’ve told her that this wasn’t a bluff.
If she didn’t take the juice, I’d pour it over her blowout without blinking.
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