That’s when Clara lowered her voice, leaning in close. "You think this ga you’re playing will end with you on top? That man may hold your hand for now, but once he hears the rumors, sees the tears I can cry—do you really think he’ll choose you?"
Ella’s fingers twitched at her sides. Her breath was steady, but the cold fury in her chest pulsed like a storm.
Clara leaned back, her expression turning theatrical. "Oh, dear," she said loudly, just as a few guests appeared at the edge of the hallway. "You’re upset."
Ella’s eyes flicked over Clara’s shoulder—several people were watching now, lingering just out of earshot.
Clara’s smile turned cruel.
"You know what I think, Ella?" she said louder, playing to the invisible audience. "You’re jealous. You’ve always been jealous. Of my family. My life. My place in society. You can dress like a queen, but we all know what’s underneath."
And then—she staggered back.
Dramatically.
A sharp gasp left her lips as she dropped her clutch and half-spun, crashing against the wall.
"Oh!" she cried, one hand to her chest. "Ella, don’t—!"
The gasp drew attention instantly. Two guests rounded the corner in alarm.
One of them—a woman in a rose-gold dress—stepped between them. "Miss? Are you alright?"
Clara sniffled, eyes wide and watery. "I—I just tried to talk to her, and she—she shoved . I shouldn’t have said anything, I just wanted to congratulate her on the invitation—"
Ella didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
She could already feel the attention descending on her like heat, hungry and eager to pick apart a new scandal.
Clara turned, perfectly posed in disheveled grace. "I—I was only trying to be kind, and she—she pushed ..."
"Ella?" a voice ca from behind.
Nicholas.
He reached her in seconds, brushing past Clara like she didn’t exist. His hand found her waist and turned her gently to face him.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice low, firm, filled with concern. His hands skimd her arms, her shoulders, checking for bruises as if she might’ve been shoved instead of being falsely accused.
Ella shook her head. "I’m fine."
Nicholas’s gaze scanned her face, not sparing a glance at the woman sprawled in fabricated innocence against the wall.
"Tell the truth."
"I said I’m fine," she murmured. Her voice was steady, but her chest was tight—rage simring just beneath her skin.
By now, a crowd had gathered. Eyes curious, phone caras cautiously raised but not yet recording. The familiar tension of elite drama buzzed in the air.
Clara, seeing the attention shift completely away from her, pushed herself upright again with exaggerated grace.
"I’m sorry," she said, loud enough for all to hear. "She must still be hurting. I should’ve known better. I just thought—after everything—we could put the past behind us. I was trying to reach out—"
"Save it, Clara," soone muttered nearby.
Clara blinked, turning her head.
It was one of the Langford twins—Charlotte, maybe. Or Colette. One of the girls who used to follow her around in prep school.
"Seriously?" Charlotte scoffed, arms folded. "You fake-fainted in yoga last week too. Are you just always fragile?"
Several stifled laughs rippled through the crowd.
Clara flushed but forced a smile. "I was only—"
"You were being dramatic," a man in a navy velvet jacket chid in. "Ella didn’t even touch you."
Clara’s eyes widened. "You were watching?"
"I wasn’t the only one," another voice said. "You basically threw yourself against the wall."
Nicholas didn’t turn. He was still focused on Ella, brushing her hair back from her face, whispering sothing only she could hear. Sothing that made her exhale, slow and controlled.
Clara looked around as the crowd’s sympathy slipped through her fingers like sand.
"She was angry," Clara insisted, a little sharper now. "You all saw her face—"
"No," Charlotte interrupted with a smirk. "We saw yours. You blocked her path. Loudly. Then collapsed like you were on a soap opera."
More laughter.
Clara’s smile began to fray. "She’s always been unstable, you know. She needed help after the scandal. That’s not gossip—it’s docunted."
But no one was listening to her anymore.
They were watching Nicholas guide Ella back toward the ballroom. His hand never left her back, his head bent close to hers, his expression hard with quiet rage—not at the crowd, not even at Clara.
Just concern. For Ella.
"You okay?" he asked again as they moved toward their table.
Ella nodded, but the burn of the mont clung to her like smoke. "She’s losing her grip. She wanted to make look weak."
"She made herself look pathetic," Nicholas said without hesitation. "And now everyone knows it."
Behind them, the murmurs rose in volu.
"Poor thing," soone said sarcastically. "Must be exhausting playing victim all the ti."
"Did she seriously think anyone would believe Ella assaulted her? Ella?"
"I give it two weeks before Clara ’accidentally leaks’ her dical records for sympathy."
"She’s over."
Clara stood frozen as the whispers turned sour, bitter, amused. Her attempt to fra Ella had backfired spectacularly. Her pristine, white gown suddenly looked more like a costu than couture.
Her eyes darted toward Ella’s retreating figure—arm in arm with Nicholas Carter, the man whose re presence could tilt reputations.
Her stomach twisted.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go
.They reached their table, and Ella paused just before sitting down.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
Nicholas arched a brow. "For what?"
"For looking at ," she murmured, "instead of her."
Nicholas leaned close, his voice quiet but certain. "You were the only one in the room the mont I heard her fake that fall."
Ella’s eyes ward.
"I don’t care what they say about her," he continued. "But they’ll never forget this."
He gestured subtly to the crowd still buzzing behind them. Ella followed the gaze—saw Clara slipping away down the hallway, face stiff, chin high, eyes glassy.
Not victorious.
Not envied.
Just... embarrassed.
Ella smiled faintly. It felt really good seeing Clara like this.
Checkmate.
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