chapter 32
Elena's POV:
I'd braced myself for this, but the sheer speed of the transformation still caught me off guard.
I met her gaze steadily, keeping my expression carefully neutral.
"If you care about him that much," I said quietly, leaning forward slightly as if sharing confidential advice, "then why don't you fight for him? You said yourself your families have been friends for decades. Don't you still have that childhood engagement arrangement? That's a significant advantage, Isabella. One I certainly don't have."
I watched her eyes widen fractionally, clearly not expecting this response, and pressed on with what I hoped sounded like earnest encouragement.
"If you really believe you're better suited for him, then use that. Remind him of what he's supposed to want, what makes sense for someone in his position."
Please take him off my hands. Please give me a way out of this cage.
But Isabella's expression was shifting again, the surprise morphing into something sharper, more hostile, her eyes narrowing as she processed my words through an entirely different lens than I'd intended.
"Are you mocking me?" she asked, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Do you think I won't fight for what should have been mine? That I'll just stand aside and let some nobody waltz in and—"
"That's not what I—" I started, but she cut me off with a sharp gesture.
"You think you're so clever, don't you?" Isabella's laugh was cold and bitter, her fingers tightening around the gift box until the wrapping crumpled audibly.
"Playing the gracious martyr, as if you haven't already sunk your claws in deep enough that he can barely think straight."
She leaned closer, her voice taking on a venomous certainty.
"But here's what you don't understand, Elena," she hissed, my name dripping with contempt. "Sebastian is only fascinated with you because you're new. It's a phase, a rebellion against expectations, nothing more. Once the novelty wears off, he'll remember that marriages in our world aren't built on infatuation, they're built on compatibility, on shared history, on families that understand each other."
Her smile turned sharp and knowing, triumphant even in her anger.
"So don't say I didn't warn you."
God, I hope you're right, I thought.
I let out a quiet sigh, the sound carrying more resignation than I'd intended, and nodded slowly.
"You're probably right," I said, my tone carefully neutral, almost weary. "Dating me for novelty, marrying you for practicality. That does sound like how these things typically work in your world."
She stared at me for a long moment, her expression shifting from outrage to something more uncertain, almost suspicious, as if my agreement had somehow stolen the wind from her sails.
"Well," she said finally, her voice still carrying an edge. "At least you're not completely delusional. That's... more self-aware than I expected."
She straightened slightly, smoothing down the front of her champagne-colored gown.
"We grew up together, Sebastian and I. That kind of bond, that kind of understanding—" She paused, her eyes hard and certain as they locked onto mine. "—it's something you could never compete with, Elena."
"I see," I said quietly, taking a small step back to create distance between us.
I kept my tone polite but final, not bothering to hide the weariness in my voice.
"I didn't come here to compete with you, Isabella. If you're not actually interested in perfumery, then I'd rather not waste either of our time."
For a moment, something flickered across her face before her expression hardened again into cold disdain.
"Let's talk about your work then, shall we? Since you're apparently so passionate about it," she said, her tone dismissive as she finally opened the gift box I'd given her, clearly expecting to find something amateur, something she could tear apart with expert precision. "I'm sure this will be absolutely—"
She stopped mid-sentence as she lifted the small crystal bottle from its cushioned nest, her fingers freezing around the delicate glass.
I watched as she brought it closer to examine, her prepared mockery dying on her lips as she carefully removed the stopper and inhaled.
Isabella stood perfectly still with the bottle held just beneath her nose, her eyes closed and her expression shifting from anticipated disdain to something that looked almost like shock.
When she finally opened her eyes, they snapped to mine with an intensity that carried equal parts reluctant admiration and desperate defensiveness. She carefully replaced the stopper, her movements precise and controlled, before setting the bottle back in its cushioned nest.
"It's... competent," she said finally, though the slight tremor in her voice betrayed how much the admission cost her. "The composition shows some technical skill, I'll grant you that."
She paused, and I could see her mind working, searching for a way to maintain her superiority even in the face of what she'd just experienced.
"Though of course," she continued, "anyone can purchase a custom fragrance from a master perfumer and claim it as their own work. How do I know you didn't simply commission this from someone with actual credentials and present it as your creation?"
I felt a smile tug at my lips—not the angry reaction she'd clearly been hoping for, but something gentler, almost amused. Because beneath all her defensive posturing, beneath the accusation itself, lay something she couldn't take back: recognition.
"Well," I said quietly, my voice carrying a warmth that seemed to catch her off guard,
"Thank you for the compliment. I'd be happy to discuss it with you sometime."
Isabella's jaw tightened, her fingers drumming once against the gift box.
"I suppose you have... some talent," she said, the words clearly costing her effort to produce. "But so what? You're not going to be the next Vivienne Sterling."