The ballroom thrumd with soft jazz and murmured speculation. Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over velvet gowns and sharp tuxedos. Silver trays floated past, filled with champagne flutes and amuse-bouches no one really ate. But Ella barely noticed any of it.
She moved like she belonged—no, like she owned the place.
Nicholas was still by her side, his presence a shadow of power and protection, but Ella had asked him for a mont. Alone.
She needed to finish sothing.
Her heels tapped softly against the polished marble floor as she made her way through the arched hallway leading toward the back of the estate. The lights here were dimr, quieter. The laughter and music faded behind her.
And then she saw him.
Matthew Alvarez.
Once her godbrother. Her childhood confidant. The boy who used to chase her through their family’s orchards, who used to carry her books at school, who promised to always look out for her—until the day he didn’t.
He stood near a mahogany drinks cabinet, a glass of scotch in hand. He looked the sa. Maybe a little leaner, sharper around the jaw, the boyish charm aged into sothing smug.
He didn’t notice her at first.
"Matthew," she said, voice cool and composed.
He turned, eyes widening.
Then narrowing.
"Ella." He blinked, once, then gave a crooked smile. "I almost didn’t recognize you."
"Most people don’t," she replied smoothly. "It’s been a long ti."
"It has. I thought you... left the country."
"No," she said. "I just left the people who hurt ."
His smile faltered.
"Look, I don’t know what you think happened back then—"
"Oh, I know exactly what happened," she said, stepping closer. "I watched it unfold in front of . My mother lying in a hospital bed. My father remarrying before her IV drip ran dry. And you, Matthew—standing beside him. Helping him take everything from ."
Matthew’s lips pressed into a line. "You don’t understand—"
"I understand perfectly," she said, voice low. "I was nineteen. Alone. And you were supposed to be family."
"I was trying to protect what was left. You were spiraling. Grief—"
"Don’t you dare lecture about grief," she snapped, her voice a razor in velvet. "You sold out. You signed your na to the revised trust agreent. You handed my power of attorney to my father. You were the one who convinced the board to freeze my assets—said I was emotionally unfit."
"I didn’t want to do that," he said, suddenly defensive. "But your father—he was going to cut out entirely. You know how he is—how he was. I had no choice."
Ella smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "There’s always a choice. You made yours. And now I’ve made mine."
He frowned. "What’s that supposed to an?"
"It ans," she said, glancing past him, "I’ve co back to collect what’s mine."
"You think walking in with Nicholas Carter on your arm changes everything?"
"No," she said, stepping so close he could sll her perfu—jasmine and ruin. "I think I change everything. Nicholas isn’t my plan. He’s my partner. My return isn’t about association, Matthew. It’s about power."
His expression darkened. "You can’t undo what’s been done."
"Watch ."
She turned to leave, but he grabbed her arm—lightly, not enough to make a scene, but just enough to send a ssage.
"I made mistakes, Ella. But we were family once."
She looked down at his hand. "Were we?"
A long pause.
Then she added, softly, "Do not mistake my silence for forgiveness. I didn’t co back for closure. I ca back to reclaim. Everything you helped take from —I will get it back. And when I do, I’ll make sure you’re there to watch."
He let her go.
She walked away without another word, leaving him standing in that quiet corner, his drink forgotten, a flicker of dread crawling up his spine.
As Ella made her way back to the ballroom, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor, she exhaled slowly. The encounter with Matthew hadn’t shaken her—it had awakened sothing long buried. Rage without noise. Fire without fla.
But just as the golden light of the ballroom flickered at the end of the corridor, a figure stepped directly into her path.
Clara.
"Going sowhere, Ella?" she asked, voice sugary and loud enough to echo slightly, just in case soone nearby was listening.
Ella stopped. Her gaze didn’t flinch.
"Move, Clara."
"Oh, but we haven’t spoken properly all night," Clara said with a faux pout. "And I’m just so happy to see you again."
She stepped closer, her satin-white gown fluttering like the petals of an innocent lily.
Ella crossed her arms, not taking the bait. "Say what you want to say."
Clara tilted her head and gave a smile so soft it could cut glass.
"Everyone’s talking, you know. The girl who lost everything... showing up on the arm of a man like that?" Her eyes sparkled with mock admiration. "You must be so proud. But let guess. He doesn’t know, does he?"
Ella said nothing.
"Oh co on, sister," Clara said, using the word like it tasted sour. "You think he’ll still want you once he finds out the real reason you vanished from society?"
"Which version are we telling tonight?" Ella asked calmly. "The one where I was a hysterical daughter, or the one where your mother convinced my father to sign over my trust and leave my mother to rot in a public hospital?"
Clara’s smile never wavered. "I think you an your father, who made difficult decisions for the family while you were spiraling. And you should be grateful, really—if not for us, you’d be nothing now. You’d still be working at that pathetic bookstore."
"I was at my mother’s bedside while you were shopping for her replacent."
"And look at you now," Clara cooed, stepping closer. "So glamorous. So desperate to crawl back into a world that spat you out."
Ella’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t move.
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