Chapter 17
Elise's POV
The Atrium was larger than I'd expected.
Beyond the entrance stretched a long corridor paved with marble tiles, its walls adorned with enormous abstract oil paintings. Each canvas had a spotlight mounted at its base, illuminating the bold blocks of color until they seemed to burn against the walls.
At the end of the corridor stood a set of double glass doors. When pushed open, they revealed a space that opened up dramatically.
The reception was on the second floor.
A spiral staircase wound upward, its wrought-iron railings entwined with artificial vines and warm-toned LED strips. Two servers in black vests stood at the base of the stairs, checking the identities of arriving guests.
Liam gave his name, and the servers bowed slightly before stepping aside to let us pass.
The second floor was an open hall with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the city skyline. In the distance, high-rises glowed against the night, like a vertical sea of stars.
About forty or fifty people filled the hall, gathered in small clusters with wine glasses in hand, conversing in low voices.
The music was soft—some kind of jazz piano piece flowing from a grand piano tucked in the corner.
I followed Liam into the crowd.
His hand rested on the small of my back, the pressure neither light nor heavy, as if announcing to everyone present: this woman came with me.
"Hey, Liam!"
A man in a gray suit approached, wine glass in hand. His blond hair was combed to perfection, his smile bright to the point of deliberation.
"Marcus, long time no see." Liam clinked glasses with him, then turned slightly. "This is my girlfriend, Elise."
"Elise," Marcus said, his gaze traveling from my face down to my ankles before returning to my eyes. "Liam, your taste has improved."
His tone was flippant, but I noticed he wasn't looking at my face.
He was looking at my dress.
More precisely, he was assessing the price of my dress.
"She's more than just beautiful," Liam said, tightening his arm around my waist. "She paints, and she's won awards for sculpture too."
"Really?" Marcus raised an eyebrow, his tone unreadable. "Well-rounded, then."
"When are you going to learn to keep that mouth shut?" Liam said with a laugh, clapping him on the shoulder.
Marcus shrugged and turned to greet someone else.
Liam guided me through the crowd, stopping constantly to exchange pleasantries.
With each introduction, he added the same phrase: "This is Elise, my girlfriend."
The tone was casual, but the repetition carried something I'd never seen in him before.
He took a glass of champagne someone handed me and replaced it with sparkling water.
"Don't drink too much," he said quietly.
He was willing to pay attention to these insignificant details.
It surprised me.
Because Liam wasn't usually this kind of person.
What he typically showed me was control, possession, occasional volatility—not consideration.
But tonight was different.
He deflected drinks for me several times, smoothed over jokes when someone commented on my tattoo artist background, and even positioned himself between me and a man who'd been staring at my back for too long.
"Stop staring at her," Liam said with a smile, though his eyes didn't match it. "She's not comfortable with it."
The man shuffled away awkwardly.
I glanced up at Liam.
He didn't look at me, just took a sip of his drink as if nothing had happened.
But this deliberate protection only made me more wary.
Since when did Liam care so much about other people's gazes?
Or was he compensating for something?
Compensating for the humiliation his parents inflicted at the Sterling family dinner?
Or compensating for bringing another woman home?
I didn't know.
But I knew that when someone who's usually unkind to you suddenly becomes kind, it usually means one of two things—either they've genuinely changed, or they need you to do something bigger for them.
I was still thinking when Liam suddenly stopped walking.
I stopped too.
He was looking at something across the hall, his expression shifted.
Not an obvious, dramatic change.
Just the smile at the corner of his mouth—it froze for a brief instant.
Then quickly recovered.
So fast that if I hadn't been watching his profile the entire time, I wouldn't have noticed at all.
I followed his gaze.
Near the floor-to-ceiling windows stood a woman in an emerald-green velvet gown.
Her hair was deep brown, swept into a low chignon that exposed a slender neck. From her earlobes hung two teardrop-shaped emerald earrings that refracted deep, luminous light.
Her features were refined—not sweetly refined, but refined in a cold, distanced way. High cheekbones, thin lips, a natural nobility between her brows and eyes, like a portrait of aristocracy stepped out of an oil painting.
She held a glass of champagne, conversing with several men in suits.
Her posture was composed, her manner elegant, every gesture perfectly measured—neither ostentatious nor restrained.
I noticed Liam's spine stiffen slightly.
The change was subtle.
Not nervousness, not fear.
More like... a conditioned reflex of alertness.
Like a usually languid cat suddenly catching the scent of another cat.
"Liam?" I called his name.
He snapped back to attention and looked down at me.
"What is it?"
"Who is that?"
I looked in that direction.
Liam followed my gaze, then—he smiled.
Not the polite, perfunctory smile from earlier.
It was a smile tinged with helplessness, complexity, and something I couldn't quite name.
"Isabella."
He said.
Just that one name.
But I heard everything in his tone.
He knew her.
Not in the "friend of a friend" superficial way.
In the way that meant he knew what flavor of coffee she liked, which gallery she held memberships at, what time she'd arrive at which events—that kind of knowing.
Liam straightened up and adjusted his suit collar.
Then he walked in that direction.
I followed behind him.
As we drew closer to Isabella, I noticed more details.
Her dress was custom-made—the emerald velvet embroidered with extremely fine silver vine patterns that only revealed themselves when light hit them at certain angles. I'd seen this kind of craftsmanship in a haute couture magazine once; only three pieces were made per season, priced equivalent to an entry-level sports car.
She wore a thin gold chain around her wrist, no additional ornamentation.
Her nails were trimmed short, no polish.
The entire effect was clean, sharp, meticulous.
Completely different from the heavily made-up women elsewhere in the hall.
"Liam."
Isabella saw him.
Her tone was flat, as if addressing an ordinary acquaintance.
But the corner of her mouth curved upward—just slightly, enough to suggest a smile without appearing ingratiating.
"Isabella." Liam stopped in front of her, his voice a bit lower than when he'd been speaking to me.
Just a bit.
He probably didn't even realize it himself.
But my ears caught it.
"You came," Isabella said. Not a question—a statement.
She seemed to have known all along that Liam would appear at this reception.
"Yeah." Liam nodded, then turned slightly. "This is Elise, my girlfriend."
This was the third time tonight I'd heard Liam introduce me this way.
But this time felt different.
The first two times were showing off.
This time—I didn't know how to describe it.
Like some kind of... confirmation?
"Hello."
Isabella nodded at me.
Her gaze rested on me for about two seconds.
Not scrutiny.
More like scanning.