Chapter 19
Elise's POV
When he said "spend more time together," his gaze remained locked on my face.
Watching for my reaction.
"She's coming today—perfect chance for her to meet my friends," he added.
I looked at him.
He was waiting for my response.
What did he want to see?
Jealousy? Displeasure? Or that kind of pitiful "please choose me" desperation?
If he wanted to see it, I could perform it for him.
But before that, I wanted to confirm something.
"How far have things progressed between you two?"
My voice was calm.
So calm that even I found it somewhat unconvincing.
Liam narrowed his eyes slightly.
Then he smiled.
"Are you jealous?"
"I'm asking a question."
"Your tone sounds exactly like jealousy."
"Then consider me jealous."
Liam's smile widened.
He stepped closer, raised his hand, and lifted my chin with his index finger.
The gesture wasn't forceful, but it carried an undeniable authority.
"Elise," he looked down at me, "don't worry. She's just a family arrangement. There's nothing between us."
When he said this, his tone was certain.
So certain I almost believed him.
Almost.
"But you need to spend more time with her," I said.
"Yes."
"And it'll probably become more frequent."
"Yes."
"And then?"
Liam fell silent for a second.
He released my chin, stepped back, and took a sip from his glass.
"There is no 'then,'" he said. "My situation with her—I'll handle it myself. You don't need to worry about it."
His tone returned to that condescending sense of control.
The topic was closed.
He wanted me to feel secure, but wouldn't give me a reason to feel secure.
He wanted me to trust him, but wouldn't tell me what he planned to do.
Very Liam.
He never gave complete promises—only just enough sweetness to keep you by his side.
I lowered my head, looking at the sparkling water in my hand.
Water droplets on the glass slid downward, leaving transparent trails.
"Alright," I said.
Just those two words.
Liam seemed satisfied.
He patted my face—like patting an obedient pet—then turned and walked back into the crowd.
I stood there.
By the floor-to-ceiling windows, Isabella was saying goodbye to several women. She picked up her clutch, bowed slightly, her posture as elegant as if she were taking a curtain call on stage.
As she rose, her gaze swept across the hall.
Across the crowd.
Across me.
Then she looked away.
No pause.
No curiosity.
No hostility.
Not even an extra second.
Like glancing at a potted plant in the corner, confirming its existence, then naturally ignoring it.
That was the most terrifying part.
Not because I was treated as an enemy.
But because I didn't even qualify as one.
Isabella picked up her clutch and walked toward the exit.
Passing the bar, she exchanged a few words with Liam.
I was too far away to hear the content.
But I saw Liam's reaction—
He smiled.
Smiled again.
The kind of smile that only appeared when facing Isabella—tinged with helplessness and compromise.
He nodded at her, as if agreeing to something.
Isabella nodded back.
Then she left.
Left without looking back.
Liam stood by the bar, watching her retreating figure, his glass suspended in mid-air.
His expression became very quiet in that moment.
Not the cold kind of quiet.
Something more complex, softer.
That quietness made him look unlike the arrogant Sterling family heir he usually was.
Like an ordinary young man, carrying a hint of uncertainty.
But this expression lasted less than three seconds.
Three seconds later, he raised his glass, drained it in one gulp, set the empty glass on the bar, and turned toward me.
"She left," he said.
"Yes, I saw."
"Were you watching me just now?"
"No."
"Liar." Liam laughed, reaching out to ruffle my hair.
He didn't press further.
He simply set the empty glass on the bar, straightened up, and swept his gaze back across the hall.
The reception continued.
People gathered in small groups, laughter and clinking glasses rising and falling. Jazz piano melodies flowed from the corner like a transparent river.
Everything looked the same as before.
But I knew something had quietly changed.
After Isabella left, the reception's atmosphere actually became livelier.
Perhaps with one of the main characters gone, everyone else could finally relax.
Liam returned to the crowd, holding a freshly poured whiskey, chatting with several men gathered around the bar. Occasional laughter erupted, and his was always the loudest.
I sat on a sofa in the corner.
People nodded at me as they passed, and a few came over to exchange pleasantries—all Liam's friends, polite and perfunctory, asking the same predictable questions: "What's your major?" "What are your plans after graduation?" "How long have you and Liam been together?"
I answered each one, smiling.
My expression management was as good as Liam's.
Maybe better.
Because I'd been practicing since childhood.
"What are you doing sitting here alone?"
A man in a white suit sat down across from me, holding a martini. I didn't recognize him—probably in his early thirties, ordinary-looking, but with shrewd eyes.
"Waiting for Liam," I said.
"Waiting for him?" He laughed. "He's busy bragging with that bunch. Come on, have a drink?"
"I don't drink."
"But isn't that in your glass—"
"Sparkling water."
The man smiled and didn't insist.
He held his glass, leaning back on the sofa, scanning the reception before his gaze settled in a particular direction.
"Do you know who that woman was?" he suddenly asked.
"Who?"
"The one who just left. In the green dress."
Isabella.
"I know," I said. "Liam mentioned her."
"Do you know what her family does?"
I shook my head.
The man took a sip of his martini, his tone becoming somewhat meaningful.
"Her last name is Sinclair. Sinclair Group—heard of it?"
I had.
Sinclair Group was a multinational financial company with operations across Europe and North America, with assets ranking in the top ten along the entire East Coast.
"Her father is Sinclair's current CEO. Her mother comes from British nobility—supposedly has some distant connection to the royal family. Isabella herself graduated from Oxford, majored in art history and classical literature. She held her own gallery exhibition in London two years ago and just moved back this year."
He paused, looking at me.
"Do you think someone like that and people like us mingling at receptions—are we from the same world?"
I didn't answer.
Because I already knew the answer.
"I'm telling you this," the man stood up, brushing at nonexistent dust on his suit, "not to frighten you. I just think you're smart and should know more."
He walked away with his martini.
Leaving me alone on the sofa.