Chapter 165 The Wrong Level

Chapter 165 The Wrong Level
Gen's POV

The voice carried from our left — pleasant, unhurried, the kind of tone that had been trained to sound effortless.

I turned.

A woman in a deep-purple gown stood with her back partially toward us, already in the middle of turning as though she'd sensed our arrival before seeing it. Dark hair swept up, posture easy, smile arranged and waiting.

Beside her stood a woman I didn't immediately place — platinum blonde hair pulled into a sleek chignon, sharp features set against pale skin, a champagne smile already aimed in our direction with the precision of something that had been loaded and cocked before we walked through the door.

It took me a moment. Then it landed.

The boutique on Meridian Street. The fitting room. The measured, pleasant voice that had informed me, with perfect social deniability, that I didn't belong in any room Ryker Sterling occupied.

Stella.

She saw me register it, and her smile widened by exactly one degree.

"Ryker, it's been too long." She stepped forward first, arms slightly open, the performance of genuine warmth delivered without a single wasted movement. Then her gaze shifted to me, bright and deliberate. "Ms. Marlowe. What a coincidence."

She let the word sit there just long enough to mean something.

Then she turned back toward the woman in purple with the eagerness of someone who had been waiting for exactly this moment. "Oh, let me — you two haven't met."

Her voice carried the helpfulness of someone doing a favor while doing precisely the opposite. "Ms. Marlowe, this is Adrienne Calloway. The Calloway family — I'm sure you've heard of them."

A small pause, perfectly timed. "Adrienne and Ryker practically grew up in each other's pockets. People used to call them Oakhaven's golden duo." She smiled at me, all warmth. "Isn't that sweet?"

The implication didn't require translation. I heard it clearly: look at what's standing next to you, and look at what's standing next to him.

Adrienne turned her full attention to Ryker, her smile shifting into something drier and more personal. "That was a long time ago."

Her voice was smooth, but the edge beneath it was audible if you were listening.

"Though I have to say, for old friends, you've made yourself remarkably scarce. I'd almost think you were avoiding me." She tilted her head slightly. "You'd never do that, would you, Ryker?"

"The company's kept me occupied," Ryker said. His hand had settled at the small of my back — not a performance, just a fact, quiet and present.

Adrienne's gaze moved to me then, with the careful attention of someone recalibrating mid-thought. "And you are?"

I held out my hand before she could finish deciding. "Genevieve Marlowe. Ryker's... fiancée."

The word dropped into the air and sat there.

Adrienne's hand closed around mine — practiced grip, exactly the right pressure. But her gaze had already dropped to my left hand, to the ring, and for one precise, unguarded moment her expression went completely still.

Beside her, Stella's lips parted by a fraction.

Adrienne recovered first, and she recovered well. "I see." Her voice remained smooth, but the warmth had rearranged itself into something more considered. She looked at Ryker. "Your father certainly never mentioned this. Neither did you."

"My father isn't always the first to know," Ryker said.

A beat. Adrienne held his gaze, and something moved through her expression — not quite anger, not quite hurt, something more layered than either. "No," she said finally. "I suppose he isn't."

Stella stepped smoothly into the pause. She turned to me with the same bright, solicitous concern she had deployed in the fitting room — the expression she wore when she intended to draw blood without raising her voice.

"Ms. Marlowe, forgive me for asking — did you receive a formal invitation tonight? These evenings tend to have a very specific guest list."

She tilted her head, all gentle worry. "I only want to make sure you're comfortable. It can be a bit overwhelming, if you're not familiar with this particular crowd."

The question was perfectly constructed. Polite enough to be undeniable, targeted enough to land exactly where she intended.

I felt heat move along the edge of my vision. Not rage — something older and more instinctive, the gold beginning to gather at the periphery of my sight. I drew a slow breath through my nose and held it.

Adrienne stepped in before I could answer, her voice pleasant. "Stella, don't be unkind. Ms. Marlowe is Ryker's fiancée. I'm sure the usual arrangements don't apply."

She said it with the generous ease of someone who felt entirely secure — the charity of a woman who had already decided she wasn't looking at a threat.

"Of course," Stella said, her expression softening into something that resembled apology. "I only meant that these circles can be complicated to navigate for someone newer to them." Her gaze moved to me, slow and deliberate. "Though I'm sure you'll find your footing. Eventually."

The gold at the edges of my vision spread another fraction.

"Stella." Ryker's voice came low, the single word weighted with something that had nothing to do with volume. "Mind your words."

Stella stilled. Her smile held, but the edges had gone careful. I set my hand lightly on Ryker's arm — not because I needed him to intervene, but because I felt through the bond the first cold edge of something absolute, and a crowded room was not the place for it. He registered the touch immediately. The tension in his forearm didn't disappear, but it held.

I looked at Stella directly and kept my voice entirely level. "I appreciate the concern." One beat of silence. "I think I'll manage."

Her smile tightened at the corners.

Adrienne watched the exchange with the expression of someone who had just learned something useful and was deciding what to do with it. Whatever conclusion she reached, she kept it carefully behind her eyes. "Well," she said, and for the first time her voice carried something that might have been genuine. She raised her glass in a small, precise gesture. "Congratulations, then. Truly."

Whether she meant it, I couldn't tell. But the performance, at least, had run its course.

A loud greeting cut through the ambient noise from somewhere across the room before anyone could speak again.

"Hey, Sterling boy— when did you get here?"

Frank was already moving toward us, both arms looped around the waists of two women in sequined dresses, his glass somehow still in hand, the evening clearly going very well for him indeed.

"Brother. You've been impossible to reach." He shook his head with exaggerated grievance. "Completely off the grid."

Ryker's expression settled into something between acknowledgment and resignation. "Frank."

"Good to see you," I added.

Frank turned to the rest of the group with the energy of someone who had just remembered additional complaints he needed to file. "Adrienne — you actually showed up. I thought events like this were beneath you."

Adrienne's gaze moved to Frank with the particular brand of cool distaste reserved for something mildly unpleasant encountered in an otherwise acceptable environment.

Frank swung his glass toward Stella with the expression of a man who had been waiting for this moment. "And Stells — that dress. No. Absolutely not. I sent you those design proposals for a reason. Fashion. Trends. Do you understand what I'm saying to you? This is exactly the intervention I predicted you'd need."

Stella's jaw tightened, color rising in her cheeks — and then, visibly, she swallowed it. Her expression smoothed back into something controlled, though it cost her.

Frank surveyed the four of us with a sweep that was considerably sharper than his relaxed posture suggested, something quick and assessing moving behind his eyes. Then his gaze dropped to my left hand and stopped.

He went still.

"Wait." He leaned in, squinting. "Is that — " He looked at Ryker. His voice climbed a full octave. "Is that a ring?!"