Chapter 18 The Seat That Wasn't Mine
Serena
I saw Sin. Right there, at the far end of the red carpet.
My heart lurched violently as I blinked and looked again.
He was gone.
I swallowed hard, my eyes scanning the crowd, searching for that dark silhouette again. Nothing.
Had I imagined it? Or was my mind finally cracking under the pressure of this family?
Camera flashes exploded around us before I could think any further.
“Master Saint, why aren’t you with Miss Lara tonight? Did you two break up?”
“Would you like to introduce your new girlfriend to the public?”
“Is Miss Lara officially your ex now?”
Questions rained down from every direction as reporters surged forward like hungry wolves.
Saint’s bodyguards moved quickly, forming a wall around us and steering us down the red carpet, but the journalists refused to give up.
Microphones stretched toward us, and cameras flashed endlessly.
“No, I am not his—”
Lara's voice was cut off rudely by one of Saint's bodyguards. Saint must have given them clear instructions not to let her utter a word to the journalists.
“You’re doing so well,” Saint murmured, leaning down so his lips brushed my ear.
The deep rumble of his baritone slid straight through me.
Between that… and the possibility that I had just seen Sin, or imagined him, my entire body felt overheated and dangerously overstimulated.
I forgot how to breathe the moment we stepped into the hall. It looked like something straight out of Bridgerton, only bigger, brighter, and drenched in Hollywood-level extravagance.
Lara scoffed behind us.
“Ew. Who planned this event?” she muttered loudly. “It looks like we’ve stepped straight into the eighteen hundreds. Back to Queen Charlotte’s era. Absolutely not.”
I rolled my eyes. Lara clearly had no idea how breathtaking the place actually looked.
My steps faltered when I noticed the way everyone was staring at us.
Men and women in elegant suits and glittering gowns turned as we passed. Their eyes slid over me slowly, assessing every detail of my dress, my hair, my face.
Then their gazes shifted to Lara. And the looks they gave her were almost… sympathetic.
As if something priceless had been stolen from her. And I was the thief.
A tall, lean but well built man bulldozed through the crowd toward us, parting guests and photographers alike with surprising speed.
His polished shoes thudded across the marble floor as he stopped in front of Saint.
He bowed slightly before grabbing Saint’s free hand in an eager handshake.
“Good evening, Master Saint,” he said brightly. “We’ve been expecting you.”
The man’s smile was wide and rehearsed. Then he noticed me and his voice stalled.
“And your…?”
His eyes flicked from me, to Saint, then to Lara who was already leaning forward, her lips parting, ready to claim the moment.
“Family friend,” Lara cut in quickly, loud enough for half the surrounding guests to hear.
Saint didn’t even look at her.
“My fiancée.”
His deep voice rolled over hers like thunder swallowing a whisper.
The man blinked. Then his smile snapped back into place, even wider than before.
“Ah! Wonderful, wonderful. Welcome.” His tone turned almost reverent. “It’s our pleasure to have you celebrate our father’s birthday with us.”
So he was Asher's son? He was good looking, but not in a badass kind of way. He was the perfect example of the everyday good-boy NY billionaire.
He extended his arm toward me for a handshake, his eyes abandoning my face to feast on my breasts.
He was openly leering at my boobs while Saint was standing next to me. Was I obliged to shake this pervert’s dirty hand?
Before I could move, Saint’s arm slid around my waist and pulled me tightly against his side, pinning my left arm firmly in place.
For half a second the man’s hand hovered awkwardly in the air. Then Lara lunged forward, sliding her hand into his with desperate enthusiasm, as if the greeting had always been meant for her.
A camera shutter snapped loudly. Lara’s face twisted as she realized a photojournalist had captured the entire awkward exchange.
She immediately lifted a hand to shield her face.
Too late.
“Please follow me,” the man said quickly, recovering with professional grace. “The high table is ready for you.”
He turned and began carving a path through the crowd.
And that’s when I realized just how many people were watching us. Just how many flashes were exploding and the number of phones that were out, taking pictures and recording videos of us.
My entire body went rigid as whispers spread through the hall. Women giggled loudly, thrusting their chests forwardly and even caressing their arms or stomach openly.
Some called Saint’s name. One particularly bold woman pushed forward through the crowd, tugging the neckline of her dress down and thrusting her chest forward.
“Saint!” she called breathlessly, stroking her nipples. “Come kiss it for good luck!”
My brain short-circuited. What the actual hell was going on? And where was the damn security?
No, no, no. I wanted to go home already.
Saint didn’t even glance at the woman. But Lara moved quickly, sliding to his other side so she was pressed against him instead of trailing behind like before.
Around us, voices continued murmuring.
“That dress…”
“It’s gorgeous.”
“But look at her face.”
“Too much gown for someone that plain…”
“Don't listen to them. You're the only light in this hall right now. The prettiest and the most exquisite thing men have ever laid their eyes on.” Saint said to me, his heated gaze travelling slowly up my face, leaving a trail of warmth that made my pulse stumble.
Lara cleared her throat loudly, the sound dripping with irritation.
My attention shifted to the high table. Several people were already seated there, men and women who looked like they had stepped straight out of the Forbes billionaires list.
Expensive watches glinted under the chandelier lights. Diamond rings flashed on the women's elegant fingers. I was sure just one of those rings could rebuild all the houses back in my neighborhood.
Damn. I wasn't supposed to be here. At all.
I spotted a familiar face. An actress I had only ever seen on television. For a split second, I had to fight the overwhelming urge to blurt out, ‘What the hell am I doing here?’
Name cards were arranged neatly across the center seats.
Most of them ended with Rivers. My eyes moved across them slowly. Nathan Rivers. Christabel Rivers. Vivian Rivers. Two more Rivers, then something made my steps falter.
I blinked. The card placed directly beside Saint’s seat didn’t read Serena.
It read Lara Fenway.