Chapter 122
Elara
"Headache, I heard," came the response. "You know how he gets at these things. Too much pressure, too much noise."
I pressed myself flatter against the wall, my heart hammering. So he'd escaped the party, retreated to somewhere quiet to nurse a migraine while his grandfather performed the social rituals on his behalf. It was so typically Julian—present enough to fulfill his obligations, absent enough to avoid actually engaging with the reality of what was happening.
"Nevertheless," Mr. Vane Senior continued, his tone brooking no acknowledgment of his grandson's absence, "we look forward to welcoming Sloane officially into the Vane family. Her accomplishments in the art world speak for themselves, and her grace and intelligence make her the perfect partner for Julian as he prepares to take on greater responsibilities within Vane Group."
More applause. Sloane executed a small, elegant curtsy that somehow managed to be both humble and self-assured. She was good at this, I had to admit—the performance of perfection, the careful calibration of confidence and deference. She'd been trained for this role her entire life, groomed to be exactly the kind of wife a man like Julian Vane would need.
Unlike me, who'd stumbled into his orbit by accident of birth and tragedy, who'd never learned the intricate dance of high society, who'd foolishly believed that love might matter more than lineage.
"Sloane has also shared with me some exciting plans for the nursery," Mr. Vane Senior was saying, his expression warming in a way I'd rarely seen directed at anyone outside his immediate family. "She's been working with designers to create a space that honors both Vane and Kennedy family traditions while providing the most modern amenities for our future grandchild."
The way he said "our grandchild"—with such pride, such certainty of belonging—made my chest constrict painfully. Lily had been his grandchild too, his blood, his family. But she'd never rated a mention in polite company, never warranted nursery plans or designer consultations. She'd been an embarrassment to be hidden away, then discarded entirely when she became too inconvenient to maintain.
I needed to move. Needed to find Victoria before my presence was discovered, before someone noticed the girl in the hoodie lurking in the shadows of her former home. But my feet seemed rooted to the floor, my eyes fixed on the tableau before me—the glittering guests, the radiant bride-to-be, the proud patriarch, all of them participating in this elaborate fiction that everything was exactly as it should be.
"—and of course, we'll be making a formal announcement about the wedding date once Julian and Sloane have had time to finalize their preferences," Mr. Vane Senior concluded. "But for tonight, let us simply celebrate the joy of this union and the bright future it represents for both our families."
The guests erupted into applause again, more enthusiastic this time. I watched Sloane accept their congratulations with practiced grace, watched her hand flutter to her belly in that protective gesture that was becoming her signature move. She was claiming her territory, I realized—marking herself as the mother of the Vane heir, the woman who would continue the bloodline, the one who mattered.
And somewhere in this massive house, Julian was hiding from all of it, nursing a headache and whatever complicated feelings he couldn't afford to acknowledge in public.
I needed to move. Needed to find Victoria, to confront her about today's humiliation, to demand—what? An apology? An explanation? As if either would matter, as if anything could undo the systematic cruelty of the past months.
But before I could retreat back into the servants' corridor, footsteps echoed in the hallway behind me. I spun around, my heart hammering, and saw one of the catering staff approaching with a tray of empty champagne flutes. There was no time to run, nowhere to hide without drawing attention.
So I did the only thing I could—I straightened my spine, smoothed down my hoodie as if it were evening wear, and walked directly toward the nearest door. My hand closed around the handle just as the caterer rounded the corner. I turned it, stepped through, and pulled the door shut behind me with barely a second to spare.
The room beyond was dark, illuminated only by the flickering glow of a fireplace. It took my eyes a moment to adjust, to make out the familiar shapes of leather furniture and built-in bookshelves. The east wing study—one of Julian's favorite retreats when he wanted to escape family obligations.
"What are you doing here?"
The voice came from the darkness near the fireplace—low, unmistakably masculine, and devastatingly familiar. My entire body went rigid with shock.
No. No, this couldn't be happening. Of all the rooms in this massive house, I couldn't have chosen the one where—
"I asked you a question, Elara."
The firelight shifted, and I saw him. Julian sat in one of the leather armchairs facing the hearth, a crystal tumbler of whiskey dangling from his fingers. His jacket had been discarded somewhere, his tie loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone. He looked exhausted in a way that went beyond physical tiredness—there was something defeated in the slope of his shoulders, something hollow in his eyes as they fixed on me across the darkened room.
His expression cycled through surprise, displeasure, and something else I couldn't quite name. Something that looked almost like relief, as if my sudden appearance had answered some question he hadn't known he was asking.
"I—" My voice came out strangled. I cleared my throat, tried again. "I came to find Victoria."
Julian's eyes narrowed. "Victoria." He took a slow sip of his whiskey, his gaze never leaving my face. "And what business could you possibly have with my sister that would require breaking into my house during my engagement party?"
The emphasis on those last three words was deliberate, designed to remind me of exactly how inappropriate my presence was. As if I needed the reminder. As if every instinct I had wasn't screaming at me to run.
But I'd come here for a reason. And standing in front of Julian now, with the memory of last night still burning between us, I found I couldn't back down.
"She sent someone to harass me today," I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. "Three hours of torture at the flea market for fifty dollars. Some woman in Burberry who wasted my entire afternoon, drove away my customers, then tried to extort me. And when the police finally made her pay, I saw her on the phone—calling Victoria."
Julian's jaw tightened, the muscle jumping in that telltale way. "What exactly did this woman do?"
I gave him the abbreviated version—the demanding portrait, the constant repositioning, the attempted shakedown. With each detail, his expression grew darker, his fingers tightening around the tumbler until I thought the crystal might shatter.
"I'll speak to her," he said when I finished, his voice carefully controlled. "But you need to leave. Now. This isn't—you can't be here, Elara. Not tonight."
The dismissal stung more than it should have. After everything, after last night, after his hands on my body and his voice in my ear saying "you're mine, I'm keeping you"—after all of that, he still wanted me gone. Hidden. Erased from this carefully orchestrated celebration of his future with someone else.
"Right," I said, and I heard the bitterness in my own voice. "Of course. This is your engagement party. Can't have the dirty little secret contaminating your perfect celebration."
"Don't." The word came out sharp, almost pained.
"Don't what? Tell the truth?" I laughed, the sound harsh in the quiet room. "You told me I was yours. You said you were keeping me. Was that just something you say during sex, or did you actually mean it?"