Chapter Twenty-six #2
We step out of the car, and the moment our heels hit the polished pavement, eyes are on us.
The rich, the powerful, the scandal-hungry socialites, they all watch, some with admiration, some with envy, and others with the quiet scrutiny that only the elite can master.
Sienna and I don’t need to speak; we walk in unison, exuding confidence, even if deep down, I feel like I’m suffocating.
As we approach the grand entrance, my stomach tightens.
My parents are already there. Of course, they are.
And they’re not alone. Ian and his father, John Archibald, stand beside them, the perfect little picture of an empire preparing to merge with another.
I feel Ian’s gaze before I even meet his eyes.
He doesn’t bother hiding the way he scans my body, drinking in every inch of my dress, before doing the exact same thing to Sienna.
Subtle, as always. My charming future husband.
“Girls! You look stunning!” my mother exclaims, all smiles, all grace, as if last night never happened.
As if she never raised her hand to me. As if she didn't rip a hole in my chest. I don’t acknowledge her, don’t even glance in her direction.
Instead, I turn to my father, planting a light kiss on his cheek, my silent question lingering in the air: Do you know what she did? Do you care?
Ian’s father stands beside him, and the moment I meet his gaze, a sickening chill runs through me.
He’s looking at me and Sienna the same way Ian did, but worse.
It’s subtle, calculated, just enough to be unsettling.
He’s the kind of man who’s used to getting whatever he wants, and right now, his interest isn’t just on business. It’s disgusting.
We go through the usual pleasantries, forced smiles, fake interest in my work, in Sienna’s modeling career.
The scripted, meaningless small talk of our world.
None of them actually care; it’s just a performance, a necessity to keep up appearances.
And speaking of appearances, my mother, the ever-perfect hostess, decides that now is the perfect time for pictures.
A photographer is summoned, and just like that, we are no longer people, just props in a carefully curated image.
My mother’s perfect family. The Beaumont family standing tall, with Ian and his father right there beside us.
This isn’t just a picture, it’s a message.
A public statement. A visual confirmation of what has already been decided for me behind closed doors.
The weight of it presses against my chest. This is my fate. This is what they’ve planned for me, wrapped up in gold and lies.
The moment the last flash goes off, Sienna and I don’t waste a second. We excuse ourselves, walking away from the suffocating charade, heading straight to the reception.
“Drinks. Now.” I mutter, and Sienna nods in agreement.
The reception is breathtaking, golden chandeliers hanging impossibly high, casting warm, ambient light across the vast ballroom.
The ceiling is adorned with intricate gold-leaf patterns, making it feel like stepping into a palace.
The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume, aged whiskey, and the faintest trace of Cuban cigars.
The walls are lined with deep, velvet drapes, and the floors gleam like liquid gold under the weight of a hundred designer heels clicking against them.
Everything screams power, wealth, and exclusivity. This is Moretti’s world.
A long, extravagant bar stretches across one side of the room, sleek and black, with rows of crystal glasses stacked to perfection.
The bartenders are dressed in sharp black suits, moving like well-trained soldiers, pouring drinks with practiced ease.
Trays of champagne circulate the room, but I need something stronger.
Sienna and I make our way to the bar, the heavy stares following us with every step.
The way men’s gazes roam over us like we’re something to be devoured, it’s nothing new, but tonight, it feels suffocating.
Maybe because I know that to them, I am nothing more than an object, a transaction waiting to be sealed.
The future wife of Ian Archibald. The daughter of Thomas Beaumont.
I place my hands on the smooth marble counter, my nails tapping lightly as I order. “Scotch, neat,” I say, surprising even myself. Sienna raises a brow at me but smirks, ordering a dirty martini.
“Not wasting any time, huh?” she teases, but there's an edge of concern in her voice.
“I just need something strong,” I murmur, glancing around the room.
The crowd is filled with the kind of people who run this city, politicians, businessmen, heirs to empires, all dressed in the finest designer suits and gowns.
Conversations are hushed, but calculated.
Smiles are exchanged, but none of them reach the eyes.
Here, every interaction is a move in a game, every word a strategy, every glance a power play.
I take a sip of my drink, letting the burn chase away the suffocating thoughts. But then, I feel it. The unmistakable sensation of being watched.
And I know exactly who it is.
My eyes flick to the far end of the room, where he stands. Lorenzo Moretti.
He’s dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his presence effortlessly commanding.
His thick, dark hair is slightly tousled, but in the way that makes it look intentional.
The strong cut of his jaw, the way the dim lighting catches the edge of his sharp cheekbones, he looks untouchable.
Dangerous. His ocean-blue eyes are locked on me, cold and unreadable, yet burning with something I can’t quite decipher.
But he’s not alone.
I don’t even know her name, but I don’t need to.
She’s the kind of woman you just know. The kind who doesn’t need an introduction because her presence alone is enough to turn heads, enough to make you feel like you don’t belong in the same room as her.
And right now, she’s standing next to Lorenzo.
She’s stunning, undeniably, effortlessly stunning.
Dark, sleek hair falling just past her shoulders, perfectly straight, like she stepped out of a high-end salon an hour ago.
Sharp cheekbones, striking features, and lips painted the boldest shade of red.
A dangerous red. The kind of red that makes men lean in closer, makes them lose themselves in the promise of it.
Her dress is short. Too short. Hugging her body in all the right places, leaving just enough to the imagination while showing off impossibly long, toned legs. She wears it with ease, confidence oozing from her posture, from the way she stands beside him as if she’s done it a thousand times before.
As if she belongs there.
And Lorenzo?
He’s standing next to her like she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.
The jealousy that coils in my chest is instant, ugly, and completely out of my control. It sinks its claws into me before I can rationalize it, before I can remind myself that I have no right to feel this way. That he’s not mine. That he was never mine.
And yet, standing here, gripping my drink like it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart, I feel like I’ve already lost a game I didn’t even know I was playing.
Because how do I compete with her?
She looks like she fits into his world, the dark, ruthless, unapologetic world he dominates.
She’s not the kind of woman who hesitates, who stumbles over her words or second-guesses herself.
She’s the kind who owns the room. The kind who walks into a place like this and knows every man is watching her.
And then there’s me.
Soft. Blonde. Safe. Dressed in something beautiful, yes, but still delicate in comparison. My nude lipstick, my loose curls, my dress that hints at seduction but doesn’t demand it.
I feel small next to her. I feel pathetic for even caring.
I take a slow sip of my drink, letting the cold liquid burn down my throat, but it does nothing to soothe the ache spreading through my chest.
I don’t know her name, but I don’t need to.
All I need to know is that she’s standing next to him.
And yet, his gaze never leaves mine.
For a moment, the entire room fades. The music, the voices, the clinking of glasses, it all disappears. It’s just us, staring across the room, tethered by something unspoken. My grip tightens around my glass, my breath hitching, but I refuse to look away first.
Because even with her next to him, even with the space and the people between us, Lorenzo Moretti is looking at me.