Chapter 121
Elara
Before Raven could protest further, I pulled myself up. The climb was easier than I remembered—muscle memory guiding my hands and feet to the right spots, my body lighter now than it had been at sixteen when I'd first discovered this route. Within seconds, I'd cleared the top of the wall and dropped down into the manicured gardens on the other side.
The landing jarred my knees, sending a spike of pain up my legs, but I stayed low, crouched behind a row of sculpted hedges. From here, I could see the main house ablaze with light, every window glowing like a beacon. The circular driveway was clogged with luxury vehicles—Bentleys, Maseratis, the occasional Rolls-Royce—their polished surfaces reflecting the estate's carefully orchestrated grandeur. Valets in crisp uniforms moved between the cars with practiced efficiency while guests in evening wear made their way up the marble steps to the entrance.
I watched a woman in a floor-length Dior gown pause to adjust her diamond bracelet before ascending the stairs, her companion—some silver-haired man in a tuxedo that probably cost more than my rent—offering his arm with the kind of casual gallantry that came from a lifetime of privilege. They belonged here. They fit seamlessly into this world of old money and older traditions, where engagement parties were political theater and love was a commodity to be traded between families.
And then there was me, crouched in the bushes like a trespasser at my own former home, wearing yesterday's jeans and a hoodie that still smelled faintly of the subway.
The contrast should have been humiliating. Should have sent me running back to the wall, back to Raven, back to the safety of knowing my place. But instead, I felt something else entirely—a cold, crystalline anger that made my vision sharper, my purpose clearer. I'd been raised in this house. I'd eaten at their table, slept under their roof, absorbed their lessons about propriety and place and the invisible lines that separated people like them from people like me. And all of it—every single moment—had been a lie wrapped in the pretense of charity.
Well. Tonight, the charity case was coming home.
I skirted the edge of the garden, staying in the shadows cast by the towering oaks that lined the property. From somewhere inside the house, I could hear the delicate strains of a string quartet—probably the same ensemble that had played at Mr. Vane Senior's birthday party, at Victoria's debutante ball, at every significant Vane family event for the past decade. The music floated through the evening air, mingling with the murmur of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter.
My path took me past the garden where I'd once spent hours sketching, past the fountain where Julian had found me crying the day after my father's funeral and said nothing—just sat beside me in silence until the tears stopped. The memories pressed against my consciousness like ghosts, each one trying to resurrect the girl I'd been, the one who'd believed that love and loyalty could bridge the gap between servant's daughter and heir apparent.
But that girl was dead. I'd killed her the moment I signed away my rights to Lily, and if any part of her had survived, she'd drowned in the Atlantic off Rockaway Beach with a bottle of pills in her stomach and her daughter's ashes in her arms.
I reached the servants' entrance at the east side of the house—a plain door tucked beneath a stone archway, designed to be invisible to guests while providing staff with discreet access. In my previous life, I'd used this entrance countless times, slipping in and out without disturbing the family. The door was locked, but I'd anticipated that. What I hadn't anticipated was that the security code would be the same.
The lock disengaged with a soft click. I eased the door open, half-expecting an alarm, but there was nothing except the familiar scent of lemon polish and the distant clatter of the kitchen staff preparing hors d'oeuvres. The hallway beyond was blessedly empty—the servants would all be occupied with the party, rushing between the kitchen and the main rooms with trays of champagne and canapés.
I slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind me with barely a sound. The corridor was narrow and utilitarian, its walls painted the same institutional beige I remembered, its floor covered in practical linoleum rather than the marble that graced the family's spaces. This was the hidden infrastructure of Blackwood, the network of passages that allowed the help to move through the house without being seen, to maintain the illusion that wealth simply materialized without effort or human cost.
My footsteps were silent as I navigated the familiar maze. Left at the linen closet, right past the old butler's pantry, straight through until the corridor opened onto the main hallway. I could hear the party more clearly now—the clink of crystal, the practiced laughter of people who'd spent their lives performing pleasure, the string quartet launching into something classical and vaguely romantic.
I paused at the edge of the main hallway, pressing myself against the wall. Through the archway ahead, I could see into the grand ballroom where the engagement party was in full swing. The space had been transformed into something out of a fairy tale—or perhaps a magazine spread on how the one percent celebrated their unions. Enormous floral arrangements dominated every surface, their blooms so perfect they looked artificial. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across the assembled guests, making their jewelry sparkle and their champagne glasses gleam.
And there, at the center of it all, stood Sloane.
She was radiant in a champagne-colored gown that draped elegantly over her growing belly, one hand resting protectively on the subtle swell. Her hair was swept up in an elaborate style that must have taken hours, her makeup flawless, her smile serene and satisfied as she accepted congratulations from a circle of admirers. She looked every inch the perfect bride-to-be, the ideal partner for a man like Julian Vane—beautiful, accomplished, pregnant with his heir.
But Julian himself was conspicuously absent from her side.
I scanned the crowd, searching for his familiar form among the sea of tuxedos and evening gowns, but he was nowhere to be seen. Sloane's smile had a brittle quality around the edges, I noticed, and her free hand kept adjusting the diamond bracelet on her wrist in a gesture that might have been nervousness if she were anyone less composed.
Mr. Vane Senior stood at the front of the ballroom, commanding attention the way he always did, his voice carrying across the assembled guests with practiced authority. "—so pleased to announce the engagement of my grandson Julian to Miss Sloane Kennedy. The union of our two families represents not just a personal joy, but a strengthening of the bonds that have made both the Vane and Kennedy names synonymous with excellence in business and philanthropy."
The guests applauded politely, champagne glasses raised in toast. I watched Sloane's smile widen, watched her hand move protectively to her belly again as if to remind everyone of the additional bond tying her to the Vane family. But her eyes kept darting toward the ballroom entrance, searching for the one person who should have been beside her.
"Where is Julian, actually?" someone near me murmured to their companion. "Seems odd for the groom-to-be to miss his own engagement announcement."