Chapter 74 William

Chapter 74 William
The garden is alive.

Lanterns hang from the old trees like captured stars, their warm amber light spilling over crisp white tablecloths and polished glassware. Candle flames flicker in rhythm with the breeze, reflecting off crystal stems and silver cutlery. Music drifts softly through the air—strings and piano, nothing intrusive, just enough to soften the edges of conversation. Guests move in small, elegant clusters, laughter rising and falling, the scent of night‑blooming flowers mixing with citrus, wine, and freshly cut greenery.

It’s perfect.

Which means I’m uneasy.

I stand near the edge of the central path, hands clasped behind my back, posture straight and deliberate. The dark green velvet of my suit catches the lantern light as I move—deep emerald, Ivy’s favorite color. The fabric is heavy, grounding, a reminder of why I’m here and who I am tonight: head of the family, guardian, line drawn in silk and steel.

My black hair is slicked back neatly, every line intentional. Emerald eyes scan the garden without conscious effort. Years of habit don’t turn off simply because tonight is meant to be joyful. Security is tight. Faces are familiar. Nothing is wrong.

And yet everyone is waiting.

They’re waiting for Ivy.

Mama has already checked the time twice, trying—and failing—to look casual. Her pastel gown brushes the stone as she paces a single step, then stills. Edward paces outright like a caged animal, straightening his jacket, undoing the buttons, then straightening it again, gray eyes flicking toward the terrace doors every few seconds. Zeus stands calmly near the garden steps, hands folded, salt‑and‑pepper beard catching the glow as he watches the lanterns sway like he’s studying constellations rather than people.

Zachary is still inside with her.

That, at least, I trust.

“I give it five more minutes,” Edward mutters, glancing toward the doors. “If he puts her in something ridiculous, I’m intervening.”

I don’t look at him. “You’ll do nothing.”

Edward scoffs. “You say that like I listen to you.”

I almost smile.

The terrace doors remain closed, light glowing behind the glass. Shadows move—Zachary’s animated silhouette, Ivy’s smaller one beside him. Guests keep glancing that way, curiosity building, anticipation tightening the air.

And then—
A shift.

I feel it before I see it.

The murmur at the far end of the garden changes pitch. Laughter stutters. Heads turn. Conversations falter.

I follow their gaze.

Lorenzo Russo steps through the garden entrance like he belongs there—and that alone is a problem.

He’s dressed impeccably in a dark, pinstriped suit tailored within an inch of its life, the lines sharp against his broad frame. His dark hair is neatly styled, his tan skin warm beneath the lantern glow. Blue eyes take in the scene with deliberate calm as he pauses, assessing, controlled. He moves with the quiet confidence of a man used to rooms rearranging themselves around him.

Too deliberate.

He doesn’t look surprised to be here.

He looks… resolved.

My jaw tightens.

Edward notices a beat later. “Is that—”

“Yes,” I say quietly.

“That idiot! He is going to ruin my chicka’s birthday! I am going to..” He says and getting up to go yell at him but I push him in a chair. 

“Calm down. I will handle it,” I tell him and he opens his mouth to argue so I continue with something I know will stop him. “What if Ivy comes out to you yelling at her ex-fiance? She would be in tears. Let me handle it.” 

Edward looks down at his lap sad but nods. 

Lorenzo’s gaze lifts then, scanning the garden—not for me, not for the crowd.

For Ivy.
He hasn’t seen her yet.
Good.

I step forward just enough to place myself squarely in his line of sight. The velvet of my suit shifts as I move, the green deepening under the light. His eyes flick to me, recognition sharp and immediate. Something unreadable passes between us—history, tension, unfinished business.

He inclines his head slightly. Respectful. Careful.

I don’t return the gesture.

Tonight is about my sister.

Whatever he’s here to do, he will do it on my terms.

I intercept him before he makes it three steps farther into the garden.

Lantern light casts long shadows across the stone path. Lorenzo stops when he sees me—calm, composed, infuriatingly deliberate. The music softens behind us, laughter drifting like this isn’t about to turn sharp.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I say quietly.

Not loud.
Not angry.
Final.

Lorenzo meets my gaze without flinching. “I disagree.”

My jaw tightens. “Ivy cancelled the engagement. You were informed. That should have been the end of it.”

He exhales slowly, fingers tightening around a slim, carefully wrapped box at his side—dark paper, understated ribbon. A gift. Of course it is.

“I’m not here to challenge that,” he says evenly. “I received an invitation. I came to give her a birthday present. Nothing more.”

I let out a short, humorless breath. “An invitation.”

“Yes.”

I lean in just enough that only he can hear me. “Our mother probably sent that out of pity.”

That finally lands.

Something flickers in his eyes—not anger. Not shame.
Pain.
He schools it quickly.

“She didn’t look pitiful when she signed it,” Lorenzo replies evenly. “And I didn’t accept it for sympathy. I accepted it because today is about her.”

“You lost the right to decide what today is about,” I say coldly.

He straightens, shoulders squaring beneath the pinstripes. “I lost the right to stay silent. Not the right to be honest.”

I study him for a long moment, measuring, calculating. He doesn’t look desperate.

He looks determined.
Which is worse.

“I don’t know what made her cancel the engagement but it could not have been good on your part. I will not let you hurt her again,” I say.

“I won’t,” he replies immediately. “Not intentionally. Not ever.”

“Intent doesn’t undo damage.”

“No,” he agrees. “But truth might.”

Behind us, the terrace doors open wider. Light spills into the garden. The crowd shifts. I feel it—the moment approaching, inevitable as gravity.

Ivy is coming.

I step back, blocking Lorenzo’s view for just a heartbeat longer. “You will follow my rules,” I tell him. “One misstep, one scene, and you leave.”

He nods once. “Understood.”

I don’t trust him.

But tonight isn’t about trust.

It’s about control.

And as the garden collectively turns toward the light spilling from the terrace, I know one thing with absolute certainty:

Whatever Lorenzo thinks he’s here to fix—
He is walking into a night where every truth will cost him something.

And I will be watching.