Chapter 50
The "Blue Ridge Design owner" Xiomara had been so desperate to meet was now standing beside Seraphine, leaning down slightly to listen to whatever she was saying.
His hand hovered behind her waist—an inch of space between them, not quite touching—but the protective posture was one no outsider could penetrate.
Xiomara stood holding her champagne glass, the liquid inside gently swaying.
Seraphine.
Seraphine again.
The owner of Blue Ridge Design—the shadowy figure her father had spent three days and nights tracking down—was the man standing beside Seraphine.
Xiomara's fingers tightened around the glass.
She recalled the guest list she'd seen at the ballroom entrance—under Blue Ridge Design, there'd been only the company name, no personal name at all.
Her father was right—this owner was incredibly mysterious, never showing his face.
Yet here he stood, right next to Seraphine, head tilted down as he listened to her—where was the aura of a "mysterious boss"? He looked exactly like a man watching the woman he loved.
Why?
Seraphine's engagement had been broken off. She'd gone back to her poor birth mother's home. She had nothing left—so why was a man like this still standing at her side?
Why was it that after losing Gavin, she could turn around and land the FitzRoy family heir?
And the Gavin she'd fought so hard to take for herself—compared to Octavius...
Xiomara stared at Seraphine from the shadows, her gaze deadly, when Haven tugged at her sleeve.
Haven's eyes were locked on the same spot, a sneer curling at the corner of her mouth.
"I wondered how she got into a place like this," Haven said in a low voice, her tone dripping with smug satisfaction. "Turns out she's latched onto the FitzRoy family heir. No wonder she could afford Grand Central Plaza clothes—hooking Octavius, shopping at Grand Central Plaza is nothing. Mara, you said she was with some old man last time. Looks like he's not the only one. Her tactics are way better than yours—she'll take anyone."
Xiomara felt a slight relief at her mother's words and followed her lead, her voice just loud enough for two or three nearby guests to hear. "Mom, stop. Seraphine's in a tough spot. However she managed to get into an event like this, it's still her ability. It's just that the Wipere family has always been honorable—we came in with proper invitations, unlike some people—"
She didn't finish, leaving a meaningful pause hanging in the air.
A woman in a sapphire-blue gown nearby glanced over at her, then followed her gaze to Seraphine, her eyes taking on an appraising edge.
Seeing someone paying attention, Haven became even more emboldened, raising her voice a fraction. "Exactly. Everyone at this gala is a respectable, well-known figure. Not just anyone can get in. I wonder how the people checking invitations at the door are doing their jobs."
Just as she finished speaking, Valencia walked past.
She'd just returned from the restroom and caught Haven's last sentence perfectly.
Valencia stopped in front of Haven.
She wore a deep navy velvet gown today, a gemstone necklace at her throat—standing before Haven in her rose-red suit, the contrast was stark.
"Mrs. Wipere," Valencia spoke, her voice low but perfectly audible to the nearby guests who'd perked up their ears. "The people checking invitations at the door really aren't doing their jobs well."
Haven froze, not immediately realizing Valencia was agreeing with her.
Valencia smiled faintly and pulled two black-and-gold invitations from her handbag, the Horizon Realty logo and a small line of text printed on the cover—VIP Guest, Personally Invited by Yves.
She turned them over slowly, revealing the guest names printed on the back: Valencia, Seraphine.
"Sera and I had our invitations personally delivered to our home by Yves's secretary. Black-and-gold cards—no need to queue at the door for verification."
"As for Mrs. Wipere—I overheard the staff at the registration desk earlier verifying your invitations. Apparently, someone found two invitations that had been left lying in a corner of the parking lot. The registered names belonged to a building materials supplier—not the Wipere family. I suppose you just happened to pick them up?"
A beat of silence spread through the surrounding area.
The woman in the sapphire gown took a sip of her champagne, the curve at her lips not particularly kind.
Haven's face went white.
Their invitations hadn't been issued to the Wipere family at all. Ryder had paid an exorbitant price to buy them from a middleman—who'd obtained them through God-knows-what channels.
Valencia calling them "picked up" was being generous. Put less politely, they'd crashed the event.
Xiomara's expression changed as well.
She pulled Haven back before she could continue arguing, forcing a stiff smile as she tried to smooth things over, her voice still holding its usual gentle tone. "You're joking, of course. We were invited. The registration desk must have made a mistake."
"A mistake?" Valencia glanced at Xiomara, her gaze calm and cold. "Ms. Wipere, do you even believe that yourself?"
Xiomara's smile finally cracked.
Valencia didn't spare them another glance. She tucked the black-and-gold invitations back into her handbag and turned toward Seraphine and Octavius.
After two steps, she stopped without turning back, adding one more line. "Security is tight here. Easy to sneak in—not so pretty when you get escorted out."
Haven's face flushed red. Xiomara's grip on her mother's arm turned her knuckles white.
The nearby guests averted their gazes—but those averted gazes all carried traces of mocking smiles.
Xiomara swallowed down the bitterness rising in her throat.
She took a deep breath, forced all the shock and resentment down into her stomach, then put on her most practiced gentle smile once more.
She lifted her glass and walked gracefully toward Octavius—so what if Valencia had humiliated her? As long as tonight's plan succeeded, she'd have everyone under her heel.
She walked toward Octavius, glass in hand.
No matter who the woman beside him was, no matter who he was—her goal for tonight wouldn't change.
After a few steps, she "accidentally" slipped—her heel skidding on the polished marble floor. She let out a startled cry and fell toward Octavius.
From any angle, it looked like an accident—she'd spill her drink, he'd instinctively catch her, the strap of her gown would slip in the commotion, he'd see it, he'd panic, there'd be physical contact.
Then she'd blush and apologize, and he'd be charmed by her shyness.
She'd rehearsed this script countless times.
But Octavius stepped aside.
Like a forward on a field dodging a flying cannonball—one smooth sidestep, clean and efficient, leaving a perfect landing space.
He didn't even spare her a second glance. He only instinctively reached out to shield Seraphine beside him, pulling her a step closer to his side.
"Watch out."