Chapter 20
Elise's POV
Sinclair.
Oxford.
London gallery.
Each word felt like a brick, stacking one upon another, building an invisible wall between Isabella and me.
No.
Not a wall between Isabella and me.
A bridge between Liam and Isabella.
They shared family connections, arranged alliances, matching status and backgrounds.
And what did Liam and I have between us?
A kindness he'd bestowed on me when I was thirteen, and emotions cultivated over the years with his money.
That was all.
I thought back to when Liam had dressed me in that black dress—the tag still attached, the price scratched out.
At the time, I'd thought he was compensating me.
Now, thinking it over, perhaps it was merely him finding a reason to continue keeping a canary with a clear conscience.
See, I'm so good to you. I buy you dresses. I bring you out to meet friends.
What more could you possibly be unsatisfied with?
I drained the sparkling water in one gulp.
"Get me another," I said, walking to the bar.
The bartender glanced at my empty sparkling water glass.
"Sparkling water?"
"No."
I hesitated for a second.
"Champagne."
The bartender raised an eyebrow but didn't ask further questions.
He poured me a glass.
Golden liquid rose in the glass with fine bubbles, refracting the light.
I took the champagne and walked back into the crowd.
Liam saw the champagne in my hand and paused for a moment.
"I thought you didn't drink?"
"I feel like it today."
He looked at me for a while, then said nothing more.
As the party progressed into its later stages, the atmosphere grew increasingly heated.
Some people started playing truth or dare, others rushed to the piano to fight over who would play, and someone produced a bottle of vodka from somewhere and began challenging people to drink straight from the bottle.
Liam had quite a bit to drink as well.
His face was flushed, his voice twice as loud as usual, standing arm-in-arm with Marcus in the center of the hall, laughing uproariously.
"Come on, Elise, come here!" Marcus waved at me.
I walked over.
"Elise, Liam says you're an amazing artist? Come on, there's paper and pens over there—show us what you've got?"
He pointed to a small table in the corner with notepads and markers—probably an interactive element prepared by the party organizers.
"I—"
"Go ahead." Liam draped his arm around my shoulders, pushing me forward a step. "Don't be modest."
His tone was casual, like someone showing off a newly acquired toy to friends.
"Show everyone my girlfriend's talent."
I stopped, glancing at the small table.
Several pairs of eyes had already turned toward me.
I picked up the marker.
Countless images flashed through my mind—the tattoo designs on my workbench, the rose framed on the wall, the first needle piercing Victor's collarbone, the nauseating smile on Benjamin's face, Anna's screams, Liam's mother's scrutiny, Isabella's gaze—
Two seconds later.
No.
I put down the marker.
"I don't really feel like drawing today," I smiled at Marcus. "Next time."
Marcus clicked his tongue, seemingly disappointed, but was quickly pulled away by someone else to play something different.
Liam didn't press the issue.
He simply pressed another glass of champagne into my hand.
"Here, drink."
I took the glass.
This was my third of the evening.
Bubbles burst on my tongue, bringing a slightly stinging sweetness.
Everything around me was loud.
Music, laughter, the clinking of glasses, someone shouting "cheers," someone telling jokes, someone kissing in a corner.
Everyone was happy.
Except me.
I leaned against the bar, drinking glass after glass.
The third glass.
The fourth.
The fifth.
By the sixth glass, the bartender stopped pouring.
"Miss, you've had enough."
"I'm not drunk."
"Your hands are shaking."
I looked down.
Indeed they were.
My fingers trembled slightly against the glass, like petals swaying in the wind.
I set the glass on the bar and turned toward the restroom.
The corridor was long, with oil paintings hanging on both walls and dim lighting.
My heels clicked crisply against the marble floor.
With each step, the floor seemed to sway.
No, it wasn't the floor swaying.
It was me.
I pushed open the restroom door. Empty, thank God.
I walked to the sink, bracing my hands on the counter, looking down at the basin.
Then I began to vomit.
Not the gut-wrenching kind of vomiting.
The kind that rises slowly and persistently from your stomach, bit by bit.
Sour, bitter, with that sickeningly sweet aftertaste of champagne.
I vomited for a long time.
Long enough that my throat was entirely raw with burning.
After I finished, I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on my face.
The water was icy, making me shiver.
I raised my head and looked at myself in the mirror.
The black dress was still relatively neat, but my makeup had smudged.
The eyeliner had bled slightly, leaving a pale gray trace at the corner of my eye. Most of the color had faded from my lips, leaving only pale lip lines and a bit of residual dark red.
My complexion looked terrible.
White as paper.
A faint ring of red surrounded my eyes—whether from the alcohol or something else, I couldn't tell.
I stared at the mirror for a long time.
The person in the mirror stared back at me.
There were no tears in those eyes.
Just emptiness.
As if someone had hollowed out everything inside, leaving only a shell.
I wiped the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand.
Then I smoothed my hair.
Then I reapplied lipstick—I always carried some in my bag.
I watched the person in the mirror become presentable again.
No one could tell I'd just vomited.
No one could tell I'd drunk six glasses of champagne.
No one could tell I cared.
I curved my lips in satisfaction.
Turned to leave.
The restroom door opened at that moment.
Liam stood in the doorway.
His cheeks were flushed from alcohol, two buttons at his collar undone at some point, revealing a stretch of collarbone.
His eyes were somewhat unfocused, though he wasn't drunk enough to be unsteady on his feet.