Chapter 4 The Perfect Princess
Vivienne's POV
Sherlyn’s perfectly glossed lips parted in confusion. “Ring? What ring? Some creep fan mailed me a diamond yesterday. I thought it was press junk. I tossed it in the drawer with the rest.”
Margot nearly levitated with joy. “That’s it! Raphael must have an anonymous admirer streak! He sent his own people to deliver the gifts because he’s shy. Darling, the Moreau heir is head-over-heels for you.”
Sherlyn’s heart stuttered. Raphael Moreau, billionaire, untouchable, the man every influencer in Europe would sell their soul to be photographed with, had chosen her?
She clutched the necklace box to her chest like a lifeline.
That same afternoon, I slipped back into the villa carrying a small, carefully wrapped frame. I changed into house slippers and headed upstairs, trying to stay invisible.
Sherlyn was coming down, phone in one hand, coffee in the other, and deliberately shoulder-checked me.
“What’s that?” she sneered, eyeing the parcel. “Did you loot my gift pile?”
I didn’t break stride. “It’s mine.”
Sherlyn blocked the stairs. “Prove it. Open it.”
My fingers tightened. “Move.”
Instead, Sherlyn snatched the frame and ripped the paper away.
An old photograph tumbled out, the face of my real mother, young and laughing, arms around a woman who looked exactly like a younger Margot.
Sherlyn’s eyes widened. “Tch. Holding onto your mistress mother’s picture? How pathetic.”
“She wasn’t a mistress!” I snapped.
Sherlyn let the frame fall. It hit the marble with a sickening crack, glass splintering across the stairs.
“Oops,” Sherlyn said, grinding her heel on the broken frame. “Clumsy me.”
My vision went red. I lunged, fingers clawing for Sherlyn’s throat.
Sherlyn stumbled back, laughing. “Touch me and I’ll scream. In three days I’ll be Madame Raphael Moreau. The Moreaus will bury you so deep they’ll need sonar to find the body.”
I froze, my chest heaving.
Sherlyn leaned in, voice poison-sweet.
“Run along, country mouse. The city’s about to have a new queen.”
She stepped over the shattered photo and sauntered away, already dialing her agent to leak the “fairy-tale engagement” to every gossip site in France.
I knelt among the broken glass, picked up the cracked photograph, and pressed it to my chest.
Then I stood up, wiped the blood from my fingers, and smiled for the first time all day.
Let Sherlyn play princess.
On the other end of Marseille, old Claude Beaumont, seventy-two, greasy comb-over, three failed businesses, screamed into his phone until his face turned purple.
He had personally chosen the diamond, had it couriered, and Sherlyn Voss had ghosted him.
“You’ll never work again, you ungrateful little…!”
Three days later, the entire Laurent clan threw a lavish engagement banquet for “their” daughter.
The villa’s courtyard glittered with fairy lights and champagne fountains. A convoy of matte-black hypercars, each worth more than the house itself, lined the drive like a royal motorcade.
Sherlyn floated through the crowd in a blush-pink couture gown, basking in the envy.
“Look, the Moreaus sent ten cars! Ten! That’s how you know it’s real love.”
Guests whispered behind crystal flutes.
“She’s marrying Raphael Moreau? The man’s a myth.”
“Ten Bugattis just for the fiancée? I want to be her when I grow up.”
As usual I watched from the shadows of the attic balcony, barefoot in an oversized shirt, hair twisted up with a pencil. Let them have their circus. I had seen the guest list. Raphael Moreau was not on it.
The motorcade rolled to a stop at the gates.
Out stepped a man in a midnight-blue suit, tall, silver at the temples, dignified.
Definitely not Raphael.
Lucien gave the signal. Six bodyguards in formation followed the man to the entrance.
A velvet banner unfurled above the gates:
FÉLICITATIONS AUX FUTURS MARIÉS
The man, Claude Beaumont’s nephew, Mathieu, sent as a last-ditch stand-in, froze halfway up the path.
He looked up.
For one heartbeat, his eyes met mine on the tiny attic balcony. Even from three storeys up, even in the dark, even without the dramatic eyeliner she’d worn that night, he knew.
My blood turned to ice. I had been caught.
Mathieu’s gaze flicked to the banner, to the crowd, to Sherlyn preening like a peacock in pink tulle. Then back to me
A slow, horrified understanding settled over his face.
I stepped back into the shadows and vanished.
Down below, Lucien murmured into his earpiece, voice calm. “Sir, we have the wrong bride.”
From the lead car, Raphael’s voice drifted out, low and amused. “No. We have exactly the right one. She’s on the roof.”