Chapter 57

Cecilia

The next morning, I made the call.

Catherine picked up on the second ring. "Cecilia, darling. I was wondering when I'd hear from you."

"Mrs. Ashford—"

"Catherine, please." Her voice was warm. "I assume this is about Margaret's birthday party?"

I blinked. "How did you—"

"Irene's been calling everyone in our circle, making sure they know Madison Hartley will be attending." Catherine's tone turned dry. "Subtle as a brick through a window, that woman."

"I need help," I said bluntly. "I need to know how to handle Margaret Brahmore."

"Smart girl." I heard the smile in Catherine's voice. "Come to my house tomorrow afternoon. We'll have tea, and I'll teach you everything you need to know about dealing with the Brahmore matriarch."

"Thank you," I said, relief flooding through me. "Thank you so much.

"Don't thank me yet, darling." Catherine's voice turned serious. "Margaret is... formidable. She makes Irene look like an amateur. But if anyone can handle her, it's you."

She paused, then added, "And Cecilia? Thank you."

I frowned. "For what?"

"For showing Carter who Sophia really was. I never liked that girl—too weak, too easily manipulated. But Carter was blind to it." Her voice softened. "You did him a favor, even if it hurt."

After we hung up, I sat there for a moment, staring at my phone.

Arthur appeared in the doorway, two mugs of coffee in his hands. "How'd it go?"

"She's going to help." I took one of the mugs, wrapping my hands around the warmth. "And she thanked me. For the Sophia thing."

Arthur sat down beside me. "Catherine's always been practical. She knew Sophia wasn't right for Carter."

"But Carter loved her," I said quietly.

"Carter loved the idea of her." Arthur's voice was gentle but firm. "The girl he saved from that closet. The damsel in distress. But Sophia never stopped being that girl. Never grew past it. And eventually, that was going to destroy them both."

I leaned against his shoulder. "You think he'll be okay?"

"Eventually." Arthur pressed a kiss to my hair. "He's stronger than he looks."

Three days later, an envelope arrived by courier.

The paper was thick, expensive, with a wax seal bearing the Brahmore family crest. I opened it carefully, pulling out the invitation inside.

The calligraphy was elegant, formal, the kind that probably cost a fortune:

Mrs. Margaret Brahmore

requests the honor of your presence

at a celebration of her eighty-fifth birthday

Saturday, the fifteenth of November

at seven o'clock in the evening

Brahmore Estate, Newport, Rhode Island

Black tie

I read it twice, noting the formal language, the traditional phrasing.

"Ceci?"

I looked up to find Arthur standing in the bedroom doorway, a garment bag draped over his arm.

"What's that?" I asked.

He crossed the room and laid the bag on the bed, unzipping it slowly. Inside were two outfits—a suit for him and a dress for me.

The dress was stunning. Deep emerald green, long-sleeved and elegant, with a high neckline and a subtle sheen to the fabric. Conservative enough to pass Margaret's scrutiny, but beautiful enough to make a statement.

"When did you order this?" I breathed, running my fingers over the silk.

"That night at the hospital," Arthur said, watching my reaction. "After we talked about the party. I called my tailor, had him rush it."

I looked up at him. "This must have cost a fortune."

"Worth every penny." He pulled out his own suit—perfectly tailored, with emerald green accents in the tie and pocket square. "Matching. So everyone knows you're mine."

Something warm unfurled in my chest. "Couple's outfits? Really?"

"Really." He pulled me close, his hands settling on my waist. "I want everyone at that party to look at us and know—she's with me, and I'm with her, and nothing my mother or grandmother or Madison fucking Hartley does is going to change that."

I rose up on my toes and kissed him. "I love you."

"I love you too." He kissed me back, slow and thorough. "And we're going to walk into that party together, and we're going to show them exactly what they're dealing with."

Saturday came faster than I expected.

I spent the morning with Catherine Ashford at her townhouse, learning everything I needed to know about Margaret Brahmore.

"She values tradition above all else," Catherine said, pouring tea into delicate china cups. "Lineage, breeding, proper behavior. She'll ask about your family, your education, your accomplishments. Answer honestly, but don't apologize for anything."

"What if she insults me?" I asked.

"She will." Catherine's smile was sharp. "Margaret's specialty is the polite insult—compliments that are actually criticisms, questions that are really accusations. The key is to smile, thank her, and refuse to rise to the bait."

She leaned forward. "And Cecilia? Show her you can't be broken, and she might actually approve of you."

By the time I left Catherine's house, my head was spinning with advice and warnings and strategic tips. But I felt more prepared than I had in days.

Arthur was waiting when I got home, already dressed in his suit. He looked devastating—all sharp lines and controlled power, the emerald green of his tie bringing out the color of his eyes.

"Ready?" he asked.

I looked at the dress hanging on the closet door, then back at him. "As ready as I'll ever be."

The drive to Newport took just under two hours. Brahmore Estate appeared as we crested a hill.

Old money, old traditions, old power.

Arthur's jaw was tight. "Welcome to the family."

We pulled up to the entrance, where valets were already taking cars. Arthur handed over his keys, then came around to open my door, offering his hand.

I took it, letting him pull me to my feet. The dress moved like water, the silk catching the evening light.

"You look incredible," Arthur murmured, his eyes dark with something that had nothing to do with the party.

"So do you." I straightened his tie even though it didn't need it.

We walked toward the entrance together, our steps in sync, and I felt the weight of every eye turning toward us.

The whispers started immediately.

"That's her—"

"—destroyed William Winston—"

"—Arthur's bringing her here?"

I kept my chin up, my expression calm, and didn't let go of Arthur's hand.

At the entrance, a butler in formal livery greeted us. "Mr. Winston. Miss Locke. Mrs. Brahmore is expecting you in the main salon."

Arthur nodded, and we followed the butler through hallways lined with portraits of stern-faced ancestors, past rooms filled with priceless antiques, until we reached a set of double doors.

The butler opened them, announcing us: "Mr. Arthur Winston and Miss Cecilia Locke."

Every head in the room turned.

And there, seated in a high-backed chair like a throne, was Margaret Brahmore.

She was exactly as Catherine had described—eighty-five years old but sharp as a blade, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, her posture impeccable.

"Arthur, darling," she said, her voice cultured and cold. "How lovely of you to join us. And you've brought... a guest."

The pause before "guest" was deliberate, pointed.

Arthur's hand tightened on mine. "Grandmother, this is Cecilia Locke. My girlfriend."

Margaret's gaze swept over me, taking in every detail of my dress, my hair, my posture. I felt like I was being dissected.

"Miss Locke." She didn't smile. "How... interesting. Do come in. I'm quite eager to get to know you better."

The words were polite, gracious even. But the look in her eyes was pure ice.

I smiled, matching her tone exactly. "The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Brahmore. Thank you for having me."

Arthur's thumb brushed against my palm—a silent message of support.