Chapter 18
Elise's POV
A high-speed scanner, completing a comprehensive assessment of me within two seconds—my clothing, makeup, posture, stance, and that layer of discomfort on my face that I thought I'd hidden so well.
Then she withdrew her gaze.
Polite and brief.
As if confirming a piece of irrelevant information.
"Liam," she said, her voice not loud but cutting clearly through the surrounding buzz of conversation, "your coat is dirty."
Liam looked down.
Indeed.
There was a small dark red stain on the left shoulder of his navy suit, probably from someone bumping into him in the crowd earlier.
"Let me take care of that for you." Isabella pulled out a wet wipe from her handbag, and before Liam could react, she had already raised her hand, carefully wiping the stain on his shoulder.
Her movements were natural, so natural that it didn't seem like a deliberate act at all.
Liam stood still, letting her clean it.
He even lowered his head slightly—to help Isabella reach.
His expression showed no impatience.
Nor that condescending scrutiny he typically reserved for other women.
He just stood there quietly, waiting.
"There." Isabella withdrew her hand, tossing the used wipe into a nearby trash bin. "It won't come out completely. You'll have to change when you get back."
"It's fine," Liam said.
When he said "it's fine," his tone was light.
So light I could barely hear it.
But I heard it.
Because the degree of tenderness in that tone was something he had never used when speaking to me.
I stood beside them, watching.
Isabella had already turned away, continuing her conversation with someone nearby, as if nothing had happened.
Liam stood in place, looking down at his wiped shoulder.
Then he raised his head and glanced at me.
Just a brief glance.
But in that glance, I saw something I had never seen on his face before.
What was it?
I wasn't sure.
But that thing made my stomach suddenly churn.
Not nausea.
It was something deeper, quieter, slower.
Like standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down—not yet falling, but already feeling that weightless terror.
I tightened my grip on the sparkling water.
The cold glass pressed against my palm, the chill seeping through my skin, yet I still felt my entire body heating up.
Isabella.
I looked at her back.
Her spine was perfectly straight, the dark green gown shimmering with a silk-like luster under the light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. When she spoke, she tilted her head slightly, revealing the emerald earrings on her earlobes.
Elegant, composed, impeccable.
And Liam stood less than two meters behind her, his gaze unconsciously falling in her direction again.
He probably didn't even notice it himself.
But I did.
Liam found the blond man Marcus again, the two standing by the bar drinking and chatting, as if nothing had happened.
But I knew something had changed.
Not because Isabella had done anything.
Precisely because she had done nothing.
She hadn't deliberately flirted with Liam, hadn't flaunted her superiority in front of me, hadn't even looked at me once more.
She simply stood there, being herself.
And the people around me—Liam's friends, their companions, the servers—everyone who passed by Isabella automatically slowed down, politely greeting her.
Not flattery.
Respect.
Genuine, involuntary respect.
That kind of thing couldn't be bought with money.
It was breeding, upbringing, and something etched into the bones after twenty-some years of immersion in social circles.
I stood in the corner holding my sparkling water, watching it all.
The reception continued.
Liam chatted with Marcus for a while, then went to exchange pleasantries with a few other people. Each time he returned to my side from the crowd, he would put his arm around my waist or hand me a fresh drink.
But I noticed a detail—
His gaze.
Every few minutes, his eyes would unconsciously drift toward the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Isabella was still there.
She had changed positions, moving from the sofa by the windows to near the bar, sitting with several women, deeply engaged in conversation.
Her posture was perfect, elbows not resting on the counter, legs crossed, toes pointed to the floor.
Even when drinking champagne, her finger position looked like something from an advertisement.
Liam glanced at her.
Looked away.
Glanced again.
Looked away.
Like someone unconsciously looking at a painting on the wall—not deliberately admiring it, just catching it in peripheral vision and unable to resist looking for one more second.
I felt something blocking my chest.
Not jealousy.
I had no right to be jealous of Liam. He had never been exclusively mine. I had known that from the start.
It was something heavier.
It was realizing my position in this game—even lower than I had imagined.
I had thought that at least tonight, I was needed.
Liam had specifically come to the tattoo studio to find me, brought me to the reception, introduced me to his friends as his girlfriend, shielded me from drinks and stares.
I thought it meant something.
But the moment Isabella appeared, all that "meaning" changed.
Liam's kindness toward me wasn't because I held any importance in his heart.
It was because he needed someone to stand beside him, to create a balance between him and Isabella.
Or rather, to create an illusion for Isabella to see.
Look, I have a girlfriend.
Look, I treat her well.
Look, I don't need you.
A word came to mind.
Bargaining chip.
I was Liam's bargaining chip.
Used to negotiate with Isabella, with the family, with everyone.
When this thought emerged, the sparkling water in my hand was no longer cold.
"Elise."
Liam was back.
He walked over from the crowd, holding two drinks—a whiskey and a fresh sparkling water.
He handed me the sparkling water.
"What's wrong? What are you daydreaming about?"
"Nothing. Just thinking."
"Thinking about what?" He leaned against the wall beside me, tilting his head to look at me.
I looked at him.
His expression was relaxed, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned, his gray eyes reflecting the lights of the hall.
Very handsome.
Like a horse basking in the sun on a prairie.
"Thinking about Isabella," I said.
Liam's expression didn't change.
But his fingers—the ones holding the glass—tapped lightly against it once.
"What about her?"
"Who is she?"
"I mentioned her to you." Liam took a sip of whiskey. "Family arrangement. A matchmaking prospect."
When he said the words "matchmaking prospect," his tone was flat.
But I knew that flatness itself was information.
If he truly didn't care, he wouldn't need to be deliberately flat.
"Why did she come today?" I asked.
"She was invited too." Liam shrugged. "She knows the owner here. Met him once at an auction."
He paused, then—
He looked at me.
That look carried something I wasn't quite familiar with.
Like expectation.
And like testing.
"By the way," he said, "I haven't formally introduced you yet."
He straightened up, abandoning his leaning posture.
"Isabella—her family and mine go way back. Her father and my father are old friends, been doing business together for decades. Recently, the family's been pushing for us to spend more time together."