Chapter 268 Who Is Qualified?

Chapter 268 Who Is Qualified?

Sophia followed Abigail's gaze. Outside the side door was pitch black, impossible to see anything clearly from where they stood.

"Nobody there." Abigail withdrew her gaze, picked up her wine glass and gently clinked it against Sophia's. "Come on, your mom's watching you from over there."

Sophia looked back and saw Mira standing by the dessert table, giving her meaningful looks.

"Great. She's definitely going to drag me over to meet some wealthy young heir again."

Sophia let out an exaggerated groan and walked toward Mira, holding up her dress.

Abigail stayed where she was. She looked down at the bracelet Chris had given her, still resting on her wrist.

The silver chain caught the light softly, the three small gemstones pulsing in quiet rhythm against her skin.

Mira hadn't actually gone to find Sophia.

She had focused her attention in another direction entirely.

On Abigail's wrist.

She had watched the whole thing from start to finish — Chris fastening the bracelet onto Abigail's wrist without a word of fanfare.

She saw her son with his head slightly lowered, his fingers working the clasp, his movements unhurried, as if completing something perfectly natural.

Mira held her wine glass, the corners of her mouth slowly curving upward.

She turned to look at Martin beside her.

Martin was chatting with an elderly gentleman nearby, completely oblivious to his wife's change in expression.

Mira tugged at his sleeve and spoke in a low voice.

"Did you see that? Just now."

Martin paused. "See what?"

"Chris putting the bracelet on Abigail."

Martin thought for a moment. "It's just a gift. Perfectly normal."

Mira almost rolled her eyes.

"When have you ever seen him buy jewelry for anyone else? Last time on my birthday, he just dropped a card on the table — no gift, no box, nothing. And today, first a bracelet, and then he puts it on her himself. You really think that's normal?"

Martin was quiet for a moment.

He turned to look at Chris across the room.

Chris was standing next to Abigail, the two of them deep in conversation. Abigail glanced down every now and then with a small smile, and his gaze stayed on her face the entire time, steady and unhurried.

Martin looked away and gave a quiet hum.

"My son has good taste."

On the other side of the hall.

Nova sat on the sofa, still turning a tissue over in her hands.

She had seen it too.

She had seen not only Chris fastening the bracelet onto Abigail's wrist, but also the watch Chris was wearing.

Nova recognized that watch.

She had noticed it during her last visit to the hospital. Abigail had asked Sophia to bring it over, and there was an engraving on the back.

Nova turned to Dwayne, a quiet flicker of amusement in her eyes.

Dwayne caught her expression but said nothing. He simply raised his hand and rested it gently over hers.

After decades of marriage, he knew exactly what that look meant.

On the second-floor gallery.

Ethan leaned against the railing, looking down at the hall below.

Chris stood next to Abigail, the distance between them neither too close nor too far, but his body angled slightly toward her — the kind of detail most people would never catch.

Ethan caught it.

His finger tapped once against the railing.

Craig walked over and asked quietly, "Boss?"

"It's nothing."

Ethan straightened up and smoothed his cuffs. He didn't go downstairs.

Not because he didn't want to. He knew that if he appeared now, Abigail would tense up. She had only just been brought back into this family and hadn't fully settled into the feeling of being looked after. He didn't want her to feel as though even making friends required his blessing.

He just let his gaze linger on Chris a moment longer.

He had known for a long time that Chris's feelings toward his sister were anything but ordinary concern.

In the corner.

Dashiell stood at the edge of the crowd, hands in his suit pockets.

In his right pocket was a small box.

A small blue velvet box, even smaller than Chris's. Inside was a brooch he had come across at an antique shop about two weeks ago — silver, shaped like a leaf, understated and unassuming.

He had thought it would suit Abigail perfectly.

He had planned to wait for a quieter moment and slip it to her without any fuss.

But then he had stood there and watched Chris lean in slightly, wrapping the bracelet around Abigail's wrist with steady, unhurried hands.

The gesture was too easy. Too familiar.

Familiar enough to suggest that the two of them had already reached some kind of understanding.

Dashiell pulled his hand out of his pocket.

The small box stayed where it was.

He picked up a glass of water from the nearby table and took a slow sip.

It wasn't a matter of pride. It was simply that pressing forward felt pointless.

He knew exactly where he stood in her life.

He was her Mr. Blackwell — a friend, someone who had once stood between her and the worst of it.

But he wasn't the person who could stand beside her in a room full of people and put something on her wrist.

That place wasn't his.

He slid his right hand back into his pocket. His fingertips grazed the edge of the box, and he paused for just a second.

Then he let go and turned toward the bar.

Outside the side door.

Matthew hadn't left.

He stood behind a pillar, watching through the gap in the door.

He saw Chris lower his head, his fingers looping the bracelet twice around Abigail's wrist, fastening the clasp.

He saw Abigail lift her wrist to look at it, then smile.

She smiled at Chris.

Matthew knew that smile.

It wasn't polite. It wasn't the kind of smile she put on to get through a conversation.

It was the smile she only let out when she felt safe — unguarded, unperformed.

In three years of marriage, she had never smiled at him like that.

Matthew's nails pressed into his palm.

He took a step forward.

Nico grabbed his arm immediately. "Mr. Gonzalez!"

Matthew looked down at Nico's hand. He didn't shake it off.

He stood there, his breathing going ragged.

He wanted to walk in.

He wanted to cross the room, take hold of Abigail's wrist, and tear that bracelet off.

He wanted to look her in the eye and demand to know what Chris was to her.

But his feet wouldn't move.

He knew he had no right.

Three years of cold indifference, and then a signed divorce agreement — between the two, he had surrendered every claim he'd ever had.

Now he couldn't even get through the door of her family's gathering. He was standing outside like a stranger, watching through a crack.

He unclenched his fist slowly. Four clean nail marks cut across his palm.

Inside the hall.

The band changed pieces.

The strings shifted into a waltz, the tempo easy and unhurried, the lights dimming by half.

This was the traditional centerpiece of the evening — the social dancing hour.

Several young men moved toward Abigail almost simultaneously.

The first was Percy's son, wine glass in hand, a practiced smile on his face. "Ms. Thomas, may I have this dance?"

The second was a young heir from one of the old merchant families, half a step ahead of the Torres family's representative. "Ms. Thomas, this piece was written for someone like you."

Just as the third man opened his mouth, Chris was already there.

He extended his right hand, palm up.

"Abigail, would you like to dance with me?"

The expressions of the men around them shifted.

Chris didn't spare them a glance. His eyes stayed on Abigail's face.

Abigail looked at his outstretched hand. She hesitated for less than a second.

She was already starting to raise her own.

"Abigail."

Ethan's voice came from the direction of the stairs.