Chapter 77

Chapter 77
The ballroom had settled into its usual rhythm—a seamless waltz of champagne glasses, murmured conversations, and polite laughter—but Margaux felt anything but settled. With William at her side, it was as if the atmosphere shifted, every glance and whispered remark amplifying under the weight of their presence together.

He didn’t let go of her arm as they moved through the crowd. Instead, he seemed almost deliberate in the way he guided her, his touch light yet firm enough to signal ownership without words. People noticed. They always noticed William De la Roche—his name carried too much weight not to—but tonight, with Margaux on his arm, the attention felt almost overwhelming.

“Mr. Allen,” William greeted smoothly as they approached an older man with a deep burgundy tie. “I believe you know Margaux Hawthorne. Soon-to-be the highlight of the evening. She’s giving a speech you won’t want to miss.”

Margaux’s cheeks flushed as she shook hands with the man, murmuring a polite response. Before she could recover, William was already leading her to the next cluster of guests, his voice low but teasing near her ear.

“You should see the way they light up when I tell them,” he said, his tone dripping with amused pride. “Like you’re the main event.”

“I am not the main event,” she whispered back sharply, though she couldn’t hide the curve of her lips.

He chuckled under his breath. “You will be. Trust me.”

It went on like this for several minutes—William working the room effortlessly, pulling her into conversations, praising her with an ease that felt both flattering and dangerously intimate. She’s brilliant, he’d say, or wait until you hear her speak—she’ll put us all to shame. Every compliment sent a ripple through her, equal parts embarrassment and warmth.

She should’ve hated it, the way he commanded attention and dragged her into the center of it all. And yet, a small part of her—one she refused to acknowledge—liked the way it felt to stand beside him, as if the world momentarily bent to their shared orbit.

They had just finished exchanging pleasantries with the deputy governor when a smooth, accented voice sliced through the hum of conversation.

“William.”

Margaux froze as William stiffened almost imperceptibly at her side. She turned to see a tall, silver-haired man approaching, his tuxedo perfectly pressed, his sharp features softened only by the faintest smile. Beside him glided a woman with cascading auburn waves and an emerald gown that seemed tailored to perfection.

“Father,” William said evenly, his tone polite but clipped. “Cecilia.”

“Darling,” Cecilia cooed, air-kissing William before letting her eyes sweep over Margaux with open curiosity. “And who is this vision on your arm?”

“I’m Margaux,” she said with a composed smile, extending her hand before William could speak. Her voice was steady, warm in tone, but there was steel under it.

William’s eyes flicked to her—storm gray, unreadable—before his voice cut in, soft and lethal. “We worked together on the bank case. She’s a close friend.”

Guillaume’s brows arched, his smile curling like smoke. “Ah. Hawthorne’s daughter,” he murmured, his cadence slow, savoring. “Margaux Hawthorne, correct? Or do you go by another name these days?”

The question struck like a dagger gloved in silk.

“It’s Hawthorne,” Margaux said, her smile calm, measured—like someone placing a final chess piece. “You seemed uncertain. I can assure you, I’m not.” She let the words hang for half a second before adding, lightly, “But then again, details were never everyone’s strength.”

A flicker—quick, lethal—but she saw it: the fracture in Guillaume’s mask. Then he smiled again, slow and deliberate.

“Sharp,” he said, voice smooth as velvet draped over wire. “Though I’d expect nothing less. My son has always liked women who bite.” The words slid like smoke before hardening into steel. “I did too, at that age… but eventually, they get so tedious to deal with.” His gaze drifted lazily to Cecilia, a blade hidden in silk. “Isn’t that right, darling?”

Cecilia’s laugh chimed soft and poisonous. “Exhausting,” she agreed, her emerald earrings catching the light like drops of venom.

Margaux felt the words skim her skin like ice, but her smile held—polished, perfect—even as heat pooled low in her chest. William, however, stilled. His posture was carved from marble, but his jaw ticked once—a tremor before the quake.

Guillaume wasn’t finished.

“Rare, though,” he continued, his voice the picture of civility, “to see you with someone. When was the last time, William? Eight years?” His brows lifted in mock recollection. “Ah yes. Paula.”

Cecilia’s voice slid in like a scalpel. “Such a sweet girl,” she murmured. “A shame how that ended.”

Margaux’s stomach knotted. She opened her mouth—but Guillaume leaned in, his tone soft enough to bruise without leaving a mark.

“I only hope,” he said, almost tender, “this turns out better.”

“Oh, you’ve misunderstood,” Margaux began lightly, her tone silk drawn taut. “William and I aren’t—”

“Don’t,” William’s voice cleaved hers in two. Low. Lethal. He wasn’t looking at her—only at his father, his stare storm-dark and unrelenting. “Don’t explain yourself to him, Margaux. He wouldn’t recognize a real relationship if it sat at his table.” He paused, his mouth curving in a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Isn’t that right, Cecilia?”

Cecilia’s brittle laugh cracked like porcelain on marble. Guillaume’s jaw ticked—barely—but enough.

“You’ve grown bold,” Guillaume said softly, the words sliding like oil over steel. “Though boldness has always been your crutch when you have nothing of substance to stand on.”

William’s answer was glacial. “Better bold than hollow.” His voice lowered, every syllable a blade. “At least I’m not hiding behind green silk and someone else’s reputation.”

Cecilia didn’t move, but her grip on Guillaume’s arm stiffened—a tremor behind glass.

Guillaume tilted his head, smiling like a man admiring his reflection in a shattered mirror. “Careful, William. Pride makes men reckless. And you’ve already lost enough, haven’t you?”

William didn’t blink. “You’d know. You made a life out of losing everything worth keeping.”

For a breath, silence burned hotter than flame. Then Guillaume laughed softly. It wasn’t kind.

“Ah,” he said finally, his voice curling around the words like smoke. “Listen to you. All fire and teeth.” His smile widened—almost fond, almost cruel. “Am I not proud? It’s like looking into a mirror.”

And just like that, the blade slid home. Because William flinched—barely, but enough

William didn’t move, but something in him coiled tight, dangerous as a loaded gun. Margaux could feel it radiating off him—heat controlled by a thread.

And then Guillaume tilted his head, voice dropping into something soft enough to chill the blood.

“Though…” His gaze swept to Margaux, slow, surgical, dripping disdain. “…I can’t decide if this reminds me more of myself—or of your mother. The same smile. The same naïve belief that storms can be tamed.” His lips curved into a shadow of a laugh. “You should ask her how that ended—oh, wait.” A pause, sharp as glass. “Let me save you the suspense: William may charm you tonight, but he’ll ruin you by morning. Just like she was ruined.”

The words slid into the silence like poison poured into crystal. Margaux felt them hit—cold, venomous—but before she could summon a reply, William spoke.

His tone was calm. Deadly calm. The kind that doesn’t raise its voice because the blade is already at the throat.

“Is that so?” he said lightly, his gray eyes locked on Guillaume’s. “Funny. Because last I checked, ruin tends to follow those who can’t win.” A beat—measured, surgical. “Or have you forgotten the last six lawsuits you lost, Father? The ones that nearly gutted De La Roche & Kingsley before I stepped in to clean up your mess?”

The ballroom froze. Every flicker of conversation snuffed out like candlelight.

William’s mouth curved—no humor, no warmth, just cold, merciless precision. “You talk about ruin as if it’s a storm I bring. But we both know who left this house—and that firm—hollow enough for the wind to rattle through.”

For the first time that night, Guillaume’s composure faltered. Barely—but enough. His jaw hardened, his smile freezing in place like glass under strain. The faint flush along his cheekbones was the only betrayal of the storm gathering behind his eyes.

“You forget yourself,” he said quietly, the words silk stretched over steel.

“No,” William replied, his tone still smooth, almost bored. “I remember everything.”

That was when Margaux moved.

“Gentlemen.” Her voice slipped through the tension like a silver blade, clear and cutting, with just enough sweetness to make it sting. She stepped forward, her chin lifted, her smile effortless—but her eyes gleamed like sharpened glass.

“I must say,” she began lightly, her words carrying like soft bells in a silent hall, “I find this back-and-forth… immensely entertaining. Truly. A masterclass in theatrics.” She let her gaze linger—pointedly—on Guillaume. “But for everyone’s sake, perhaps we should start heading to the dining hall before this gala turns into a Greek tragedy acted out by men who really ought to stop living vicariously through others.”

The pause after was exquisite. A hush rippled through the onlookers, whispers curling like smoke at the edges of the room.

Margaux smiled wider, all grace and poise, as though nothing had been said at all. “Shall we?”