Chapter 80

Chapter 80
She was still smiling when a smooth, accented voice slid through the air like a blade wrapped in velvet.

“Charming,” Guillaume said lightly, his words laced with an edge so fine it almost glittered.

Margaux stilled, the sound of her own heartbeat slamming back into her ears as she turned. Guillaume stood a few feet away, a glass of champagne in one hand, his silver hair gleaming beneath the chandeliers. His smile was polite—too polite.

“I must admit,” he continued, his eyes flicking lazily between Pierre and Margaux, “my French is a little rusty. But not so rusty that I can’t appreciate a good joke about our… esteemed company.” He gestured toward the women Pierre had been mocking, his tone smooth as silk stretched over wire.

Pierre straightened instantly, his easy humor hardening into something guarded. “Monsieur,” he began, his voice low and respectful. “Je—”

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself,” Guillaume cut in, his gaze landing on Margaux like a cat pinning down a bird. “I’m sure you’ve been keeping our dear Margaux wonderfully entertained. William does have a talent for finding men who can fill the gaps he leaves behind.”

The words slid like poison into crystal. Delivered softly, almost lazily, but with an accuracy that made Margaux’s stomach twist.

For a fraction of a second, she forgot how to breathe. She could feel Pierre tense beside her, a ripple of discomfort breaking through his composure—but Guillaume? He just sipped his champagne, smiling like a man savoring the chaos he’d just unleashed.

And somewhere across the room—Margaux didn’t have to look to know—William was watching.

She could feel it. That heavy, storm-gray stare cutting through the swell of music and laughter like a blade. It pressed against her skin, prickling the back of her neck until it took everything she had not to turn, not to meet those eyes that always felt like too much.

“William?” Pierre’s voice pulled her back, soft but curious. “Raph’s friend?”

“Yes,” Margaux said, her tone level despite the hollow thrum in her chest. She nodded faintly toward the tall, silver-haired man retreating into the crowd. “That’s his father.”

Pierre’s brow furrowed, his gaze following Guillaume as he drifted toward a figure standing rigid in midnight black near the far end of the ballroom.

Guillaume’s smile sharpened as he approached his son, champagne glass tilting just enough to catch the chandelier’s gleam. William didn’t move—he was marble and shadow, but the air around him burned like a live wire. His eyes, dark as storm clouds, didn’t leave Margaux. Not for a second.

“I admit,” Guillaume murmured when he reached him, his voice smooth as silk stretched thin, “I was wrong.”

William didn’t glance at him. Not even when Guillaume’s hand clapped lightly against his back—once, then again, the gesture casual, almost paternal, yet laced with something jagged.

“She’ll ruin you.”

The words slid into William like a blade disguised as affection. Guillaume’s smile didn’t falter as he delivered the parting blow, his breath warm with champagne and condescension.

And then, with the quiet grace of a man who enjoyed leaving fires in his wake, Guillaume walked away—his glass glittering, his smirk carved into marble.

William stood very still, his jaw tight, his pulse pounding like war drums in his ears. Across the room, Margaux laughed at something Pierre said, the sound soft, fragile—and it gutted him.

Because Guillaume was wrong.

The orchestra swelled again, a lilting waltz spiraling through crystal and silk, but William barely heard it. Every note was drowned out by the pulse pounding in his ears, by the soundless roar of something he had spent years—decades—learning to cage.

Guillaume’s words were a poison that didn’t kill quickly. They seeped. They settled. And they ignited every raw nerve William thought he’d cauterized long ago.

She’ll ruin you.

No. Guillaume was wrong. He always had been. William wasn’t a man who let anyone ruin him. But as his gaze tracked Margaux—the curve of her smile, the tilt of her head as Pierre leaned in close—he felt something coil tight in his chest.

Want. It was a quiet, vicious thing, and it burned like oxygen on open flame.

Across the ballroom, Margaux shifted slightly, her hand brushing Pierre’s sleeve as she laughed again. Too softly for anyone else to notice. But William noticed. He noticed everything.

A sharp clink rang out near the dais—the sound of silver striking crystal. The music faded, and a hush swept the hall as an attendant announced dinner. Guests began drifting toward the grand dining room, the swirl of silk and velvet shifting like a tide.

Margaux turned toward Pierre, her smile still faint, still polished, but her eyes… they weren’t quite there. Not fully. William saw it in the space between her laughter and her silence—the fracture, the quiet tremor beneath the perfect mask.

And before his father’s voice could slither through his mind again, before he could think better of it, William moved.

His stride cut clean through the current of bodies, smooth and unhurried, but every line of him was taut as a bowstring. Conversations dipped as he passed, heads turning like compass needles to true north. He didn’t look at them. Didn’t look at anyone but her.

Margaux saw him a breath too late. Her laugh faltered mid-syllable, her spine tightening as her gaze collided with his—gray steel locking on gold across the sea of silk and crystal. The crowd melted into blur, the music dulled to a low hum. For one suspended heartbeat, neither of them breathed.

And then, just as the world narrowed to that single unspoken line of sight, Pierre’s voice broke through.

“Margaux.”

She blinked—sharply, like surfacing from deep water—and turned to find him at her side, hand outstretched in quiet expectation. His smile was warm, easy, unknowing. “They’re calling for us,” he said, his tone low as he gestured toward the grand double doors leading to the dining hall.

For half a second, she hesitated—just half a second—but it was enough for William to see. Enough for his jaw to tighten imperceptibly, his glass still untouched in his hand as he stood rooted across the room, watching her with that glacial calm that burned hotter than fire.

“Of course,” Margaux murmured, slipping her hand into Pierre’s arm. Her smile slid back into place like armor, polished and perfect, as he guided her through the current of gowns and tuxedos.

She didn’t look back.

But she felt him.

Every step toward the dining hall, she felt the weight of his gaze trailing after her like smoke—silent, searing, inescapable.