Chapter 78

Chapter 78
She walked like nothing had happened—chin high, shoulders poised, every inch the Hawthorne elegance she’d been bred for. But William saw it. The tension threading through her spine, the way her fingers curled too tightly against her clutch.

“Margaux.” His voice was quiet, low enough to make the empty hall feel smaller. He followed a step behind, his stride smooth but coiled, like a man containing a storm.

She didn’t answer. Her pace stayed calm—unhurried—but not once did she glance back.

“Are you okay?” he asked, softer this time, the edge stripped from his tone, leaving only something raw. Concern. Something that sounded almost like guilt.

Still nothing. Just the quiet swish of silk against marble, the steady click of her heels.

“Margaux.” A little sharper now. He closed the distance, falling in step beside her. “Talk to me.”

Her head turned slightly, just enough for him to catch the faintest flicker of her eyes—cool, polished, and utterly unreadable. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

The lie cut through the space between them, soft as a blade wrapped in velvet.

William’s jaw clenched. “After what he said—”

She stopped. Abruptly. For one breath, two, she just stood there, her back straight, her shoulders rigid as glass. Then she pivoted—not toward him, but toward the gilded door at the end of the hall.

“I need to fix my makeup,” she said lightly, almost sweetly, as if the words weren’t armor. As if she wasn’t walking away before the heat behind her ribs cracked her open.

“Margaux—” His hand twitched at his side, aching to stop her, to hold her in place, to make her look at him.

But she was already moving. Faster now. Her composure still flawless, every line of her body screaming elegance—but William could feel it. The urgency thrumming beneath the silk.

She reached the powder room without another glance, the door swinging shut with a soft click that sounded louder than a gunshot in the silence she left behind.

William stood there for a moment, staring at the polished wood like it had stolen something from him. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening, his breath sharp and controlled.

He didn’t follow.

The powder room was silent, save for the soft hum of the chandelier above. Margaux stepped inside like a sleepwalker, her heels whispering against the marble, the heavy door closing behind her with a muted click.

She moved to the nearest mirror, fingers curling around the edge of the counter as if she needed it to keep herself upright. The reflection staring back was flawless—every strand of hair pinned perfectly, lipstick untouched, dress immaculate.

And yet, she felt like she was coming apart at the seams.

Her throat ached, tight with the pressure of something she refused to name. She blinked hard, once, twice, but the heat still burned at the corners of her eyes.

Don’t you dare cry, she told herself, dragging in a shaky breath.

But God, she wanted to.

It wasn’t just the words—it was the way Guillaume had said them. Soft. Almost kind. As if he was doing her a favor by telling her the truth: that she wasn’t enough. That she’d never be enough.

And maybe, deep down, she’d always known it. That no matter how perfect the dress, how sharp the smile, she didn’t quite fit—not here, not in this world of silk and diamonds and predators who smelled blood beneath the polish.

She pressed her fingertips against the cool marble, fighting the rising tide in her chest. Why am I like this? Why am I letting this get to me?

She was Margaux Hawthorne. She knew who she was. She had built her name on control, composure, precision. And yet here she was—shaking.

And it wasn’t just Guillaume.

It was William.

The way he’d looked at her, the way he’d spoken—for her, against his father, like the world could burn and he wouldn’t care. And for one horrifying, dizzying moment, she’d wanted to believe him.

Which was insane. Absolutely insane. Because she didn’t care about William De la Roche. She didn’t care who Paula was or why his father thought she was another name on some invisible list.

So why does it feel like I can’t breathe?

Margaux’s chest tightened painfully, a hollow ache blooming beneath her ribs. Her mascara smudged at the corner of her eye, and she cursed softly, fumbling for a tissue. Her hands shook as she dabbed at the mark, her reflection blurring through the burn in her eyes.

“What the hell am I doing?” she whispered to herself, the words breaking in the quiet.

And then, as if to anchor herself to something—anything—she thought of Pierre.

Pierre, her date. Her safe choice. The man who was supposed to stand beside her tonight, make her look untouchable, keep her from feeling like… this.

“Where is he?” she muttered, her voice cracking on the edges. “Where the hell is Pierre?”

Because he should have been there. He should have stepped in, should have done something—anything—to keep her from standing under the weight of Guillaume’s contempt, alone.

But he hadn’t. And William had.

Margaux pressed the tissue harder against her skin, her hands trembling as she tried to erase the damage—erase the weakness clawing at her. Another breath, another blink, another layer of armor sliding back into place.

By the time her mascara was fixed, her face was perfect again. Smooth. Immaculate. The perfect Hawthorne mask.

But inside? She felt hollow. Fragile. Like glass balanced on the edge of a table, one breath away from shattering.

Margaux drew in one last breath—steady, sharp, controlled—and smoothed her dress. Perfect. Always perfect.

She pushed the door open and stepped into the corridor, her heels clicking against marble, her mask firmly back in place. The air felt cooler out here, quieter—but the reprieve lasted all of three seconds.

Because there he was.

Pierre.

Rushing toward her from the opposite end of the hall like a man late for his own wedding. His tie hung loose around his neck, his collar askew, and his forehead glistened with sweat. One hand clutched his phone, the other fumbling uselessly with silk fabric as he half-walked, half-jogged toward the men’s room.

He didn’t even see her at first—not until he nearly collided with a waiter and swore under his breath in French, jerking to a stop just a few feet away.

“Margaux—” He sounded breathless, harried, like someone who’d been running for far more than just a bathroom break. "I promise I have a good excuse."