Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen
TWO YEARS AGO

Marianne has been my assistant and my closest friend since the beginning. She joined my father’s company not long after I did, only two years older than me, polished to perfection, with the efficiency of a diplomat and the instincts of a lawyer. Even after marrying Matteo, a man with enough money to buy a vineyard just because she liked the wine, she stayed. People always assume she works for me because she needs to, but the truth is she enjoys the chaos of my life almost as much as I do.

I see her before she sees me. Her smile falters. Her posture shifts and then she goes still. Her gaze lands on Angelica and the man she is dragging around like her latest designer accessory. Théo. My past. Her prop. The combination makes my stomach tighten and my fingers itch for a second glass of champagne.
Where is my father when I need him? Probably making polite conversation over aged Scotch, still trying to believe his stepdaughter is something more than a walking cautionary tale in velvet. He has always tried to see the good in people. Especially in Polenya’s daughter. But whatever goodness might live in Angelica, it lies so deep beneath the surface it would take a scalpel and a ritual to extract it.

The murmurs begin before they even reach the center of the room. I hear them in the hush between conversations, feel them slide like static across the fabric of my gown. Glances start to gather. Some are veiled. Others are unapologetically direct. There it is. The scandal that refuses to be buried.

I can almost hear the speculation. The ex she never got over. The stepsister now parading him like a conquest. Was it planned? Did Miara know? Does Niklath care? I wonder whose side they are on. Some may root for her, sipping chilled wine and applauding her audacity. Others will pity me. Some will say I brought this on myself. After all I hear the whispers that I am too composed, too detached to be worthy of real love.

Let them whisper. Let them create their stories. I am not here to explain myself to any of them. I glance back at Marianne and catch the slight narrowing of her eyes. She is watching Angelica approach, her expression unreadable but cool. Matteo stands beside her, placing a hand gently at the small of her back, a gesture so familiar I recognise it instantly. Niklath does the same to me.

Angelica moves toward us, her head held high. Théo walks behind her, his smug smile practically gleaming, his fingers brushing the base of her spine as if he owns every inch of this performance. I feel something twist inside me, sharp and old. The memory of that touch used to hold meaning. Now it burns with insult. They almost reach us, but an usher steps in, calm and polished in her black suit and earpiece, and redirects them toward their assigned seats. The interruption is gentle but firm. A masterpiece in event control.

Niklath leans in then. His mouth grazes my temple, his breath warm against my skin.
“Your stepsister is becoming a threat,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady, tinged with something deeper that stirs the wolf in him. “We are going to deal with it.”

I nearly laugh. The dry edge in his voice, that cold disdain disguised in calm words, draws something fierce and appreciative from within me.
“Careful,” I whisper. “You’re making me fall in love with you.” I already am, Niklath. If only you could feel how much.

He lifts an eyebrow slightly. It is subtle, but I see the heat that flares in his eyes, the slow blink of a man who smells tension and starts preparing for it. I touch the edge of his jacket, my fingers grazing the fabric just above his ribs. “What will it take for my father to see her clearly?”

Niklath doesn’t answer right away. He looks at Angelica, her posture proud, her smile sharp and hollow, her hand still resting on Théo’s arm like she is staking a claim. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, but firm enough to still the air between us.

“He already sees her. He has for a long time. He just believes in you more than he doubts her.”

If it were my choice, Angelica would be locked in a tower far from mirrors and photographers, stripped of silk gowns and sympathy, removed from anything that feeds the vanity she wears like skin. I would send her to a place with no phones and no cameras. A place where the silence would force her to sit with herself and finally recognise the ugliness she has always disguised in charm. My father still tries to maintain peace, but Niklath sees the rot for what it is. He watches it. Tracks it. And he has started circling her with the instincts his wolf that protects its mate. With teeth hidden behind steady silence. His possessiveness never feels like control. It feels like certainty. I look up at him again, and something inside me loosens. He does not offer rescue. He does not ask what I need. He simply believes in my strength and stands at my side like a shield that never sleeps and that, more than anything, is what keeps me standing.