Ashton gave Declan an approving nod, then turned to Gwendolyn. ‘I told you I’d bring my wife today. Anyone gives her trouble, they’re taking on.’
His voice was low, but it carried.
Loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.
The words weren’t just ant for Gwendolyn.
They were a warning shot to the entire Laurent clan.
Anyone who’d been whispering behind my back a second ago suddenly rembered how to shut up.
A few awkward beats passed before the party resud its rhythm, the chatter awkward at first, then slowly picking up pace again.
Ashton took my hand and led to the enormous sofa in the centre of the room.
I braced myself for the glares, the barbed questions, the sudden onset of passive-aggression.
But instead, everyone smiled.
So even tried to make it look convincing, though it was obvious they were clenching their molars behind those well-practised grins.
I’d thought Ashton’s (allegedly) illegitimate status would’ve put him in a precarious spot with the family, but apparently not.
They were treating him like royalty.
No one dared raise their voice, not even Reginald.
Which made think—if people did suspect our marriage was a sham, would anyone actually have the guts to say it out loud?
Probably not.
So why, exactly, was Ashton still going overboard with all those rehearsals?
It wasn’t like we needed to sell the act that hard, but he’d been treating this like so kind of military drill.
Then there was the whole thing about his grandfather, Edouard Laurent.
According to Ashton, the old man was on his deathbed at a nursing ho and just wanted to see him get married before he went.
Hence the fake marriage.
Hence the real marriage certificate.
But when I finally saw Edouard, sure, he looked old and a bit frail—he needed a cane—but he didn’t seem like he was about to kick the bucket.
His attitude towards landed sowhere between Reginald and Declan—not overly warm, but not icy either.
Polite. Neutral. Watchful.
Which tracked.
He wasn’t like his son, Reginald, who wore every thought on his sleeve like a bad na tag.
Edouard hadn’t built an empire by being the type to blurt out anything without weighing it first.
He thanked for my gift, even complinted my dress—very grandfatherly, very smooth.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought he actually liked .
Then the party got properly underway.
There were speeches, gift-giving, cake-cutting, photo-taking—the whole shebang.
Not long after, Ashton was called into the study by his grandfather.
I was left alone on the sofa, quietly matching nas to faces and observing the dynamics of a multi-branch family tree.
I felt it almost imdiately—that creeping sensation of being watched.
Not just the polite kind, either.
This was surgical, skin-peeling scrutiny.
I tried to ignore it, but one particular stare coming from my right was doing a fantastic job of making my shoulders lock up.
I turned my head and locked eyes with a woman in the corner.
She wasn’t blinking.
Fuck.
Isobel Brooke.
The jolt that went through was embarrassingly visible—I actually flinched.
Her gaze hadn’t changed since high school.
Still that cold, reptilian deadness, like she’d skin just to see how I was wired.
I shivered.
It wasn’t fear.
It was that reflexive revulsion, like when you feel sothing wet and squishy in your shoe and realise you’ve just crushed a slug.
When Serenna Oakley ntioned that Isobel was coming back to town, I’d thought, ‘Skyline’s huge. What are the odds we’d ever bump into each other again?’
Yet here we were, not even a few days later, and I was staring straight at her.
I leaned slightly towards the girl next to —dark hair, barely out of college, tapping away on her phone like she was in her bedroom instead of a party.
Ashton had introduced her earlier, but my brain had already dumped her na.
‘Who’s that?’ I asked, keeping my voice casual as I nodded subtly towards Isobel.
She looked up, then followed my line of sight. ‘Oh. That’s Isobel... sothing. She’s with Quentin, Ashton’s second uncle’s kid. Pretty sure they’re getting engaged soon. That’s probably why she’s here. Y’know, tagging along as future family.’
I looked again.
The way Isobel’s eyes had been slicing through told everything I needed to know.
Serenna had been right: Isobel still hated my guts.
I exhaled slowly, the walls starting to press in around like the air had thickened.
Too many people had sward already—chit-chatting, fake-smiling, all trying to suss out one thing: how close was I to Ashton?
And if the answer was ‘very’, could I pull his strings?
Could I be their inside track, their pretty little pawn?
It felt less like a party and more like a networking event, one where ninety per cent of the guests shared the sa surna.
It was still too early to slip out without raising eyebrows, so I stood, smoothed my dress, and gave an excuse of needing the loo.
I ducked right, away from the clinking of Baccarat crystal and the nauseating hum of polite small talk, out through a French window into actual air.
The grass under my heels was damp but welco.
A gaggle of kids were shrieking with joy nearby, running in uncoordinated circles, high on cake and freedom.
Their laughter floated on the breeze like bubbles about to pop.
I passed the pool—glowing turquoise under the garden lights—when soone yelled my full na.
‘Mirabelle Vance!’
I stopped dead.
That voice.
I hadn’t heard it in years, but it still scraped across my nerves like nails on a chalkboard.
I turned slowly, and there she was, strutting across the lawn.
‘Haven’t seen you in a long while,’ Isobel said.
She stopped right in front of , chin tilted, eyes scanning my face.
‘Not long enough,’ I muttered.
‘Surprised to see ?’ she asked.
I smiled. ‘Surprised you’re still in one piece. Given that bratty attitude and unfiltered mouth of yours, I figured by now your body would have washed up on a beach in so sketchy port city. Headless.’
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