Chapter 86
Elara
She set the tray down on the windowsill. Hard enough that the water glass sloshed. Nearly spilled.
"Oh dear." Her smile was thin. "How clumsy of me. But then, I suppose you're used to things being... less than perfect. Aren't you?"
I pushed myself to my feet. "Thank you, Anna. You can go."
"Can I?" She cocked her head, like a bird examining prey. "You know, in all my years here, I've never seen anyone quite like you. The way you carry on. Making demands. Causing scenes. As if you have any right."
"Anna—"
"Your father was a driver." She took a step closer. Her voice dropped to a hiss. "A servant. Just like me. The only difference is, when he died, the family took pity on you. Gave you everything. And this is how you repay them? By standing in that ballroom, in that cheap dress, screaming about money?"
Heat flooded my cheeks. "Get out."
"You should be grateful." She wasn't done. Couldn't resist twisting the knife. "Any other family would have thrown you back to the street. But not the Vanes. They're too kind. Too generous. And you—you're nothing but an ungrateful little—"
"I said get out."
"—parasite, bleeding them dry while pretending to be one of—"
"I know about the wine."
Anna's mouth snapped shut. The color drained from her face.
"What?"
"The 1982 Lafite." I kept my voice level. Calm. "Two bottles. Disappeared from the cellar last month. You sold them. I saw you meeting with the buyer in the garden. I know the name of the auction house. I have the dates."
She'd gone white as paper. "You... you're lying."
"Am I?" I took a step forward. She retreated. "You think I didn't notice things when I lived here? You think I didn't see how you operate? You're very good at it, Anna. Very careful. But not careful enough."
Her hands were shaking. "If you tell them—"
"I won't." I let the words sink in. "As long as you stay away from me. As long as you keep your mouth shut about tonight. About me. About everything. We never had this conversation. Understand?"
For a moment, she just stared. Then something ugly twisted across her features.
"You little bitch." The words came out venomous. "You think you're so clever. But you're nothing. Nothing. And one day, when Julian gets tired of his little charity project, when the old man finally stops pretending you matter—you'll be right back where you started. In the gutter where you belong."
She spun and walked away. Nearly ran. Her footsteps echoing down the hall like gunshots.
I pushed open the door to my old room.
Just for a moment. Just to catch my breath before I had to go back downstairs and smile at people who thought I was a leech.
The door swung open on silent hinges.
I froze.
Everything—everything—was exactly as I'd left it.
The desk lamp stood on the left side of the desk, right where I always kept it. The succulent on the windowsill looked healthy, vibrant even, its leaves fat with water. Someone had been watering it. Regularly.
On the nightstand sat the glass jar filled with shells I'd collected at the beach when I was sixteen. Sunlight caught the edges, throwing fragments of rainbow across the wall.
I moved to the bookshelf. Ran my fingers along the spines.
No dust.
My chest tightened. I'd moved out. Moved to the Bronx. Left this life behind.
So why did it look like I'd never left at all?
It couldn't be Mr. Vane Senior. He'd just told the entire party I was a financial burden. It wasn't the regular staff—no one touched a family member's room without explicit orders. Tristan barely looked at me. Victoria would sooner burn this room than preserve it. And Anna...
Anna.
I almost laughed. She'd just finished calling me a parasite.
That left one person.
Julian.
The realization hit like a fist to the sternum. I sank onto the edge of the bed, hands pressing into the soft duvet. Lavender. The scent drifted up—my favorite room spray, the one I always used before I...
Before I left.
"Why..." The word came out broken. "Why would you keep it like this? Why be so kind and so cruel?"
Tears slid down my cheeks before I could stop them, hot and silent, falling onto my clenched hands.
A knock at the door made me jerk upright. I wiped my face quickly, fingers shaking.
"Come in."
Julian stepped inside, a champagne-colored dress draped over one arm. The fabric caught the light—silk and lace, expensive, elegant.
He held it out. "Change into this."
I blinked at him, then at the dress. "What?"
"Your dress. It got champagne on it earlier."
That was a lie. My dress was fine. But his expression didn't invite argument.
I took the dress. The fabric was cool and smooth against my fingers, far nicer than anything I owned.
"I'll wait outside." He turned toward the door.
Five minutes later, I was staring at my back in the mirror, arm twisted awkwardly behind me, fingertips barely brushing the zipper pull.
I couldn't reach it.
"Um..." I cleared my throat. Louder: "Could you—could you come back in for a second?"
The door opened. Julian's reflection appeared behind mine in the mirror.
I gestured helplessly at my back. "I can't..."
He crossed the room in three strides. His fingers found the zipper, cool against my overheated skin.
The rasp of metal teeth seemed impossibly loud in the quiet room.
His knuckles brushed my spine. Once. Twice. I shivered despite myself, goosebumps rising along my arms. The dress fit perfectly, hugging my waist, the neckline elegant without being revealing.
In the mirror, I watched his face. Concentration flickered across his features, his jaw tight, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.
The zipper climbed higher. His fingertips skimmed the nape of my neck, and I forgot how to breathe.
When the zipper reached the top, his hand didn't drop away. Instead, his fingers curled around my shoulder—firm, possessive—and turned me around.
"Julian—"
His other hand caught my chin, tilting my face up with a grip that left no room for refusal. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and something dangerous flickered in their depths.
Then his mouth was on mine.
Not gentle. Not asking.