18. Adrian
— ? —
Adrian
The ballroom is magnificent and terrible.
Crystal chandeliers that have hung here since the Gilded Age scatter light across a ballroom of guests in designer gowns and tailored suits.
The Lockhart mansion is one of Newport’s finest - marble floors worn smooth by a century of dancing feet, gilded moldings that drip with old money, enough wealth concentrated in this single room to fund a small country.
Vivienne is in her element.
She glides through the crowd like a shark in familiar waters, accepting compliments on the decorations, the menu, the cause.
The Lockhart Foundation’s cancer research gala has been her flagship charity for a decade - her stage, her crown, her annual reminder to Newport society that she matters.
Tonight, she’s wearing that crown like armor, her silver gown catching the light every time she turns to accept another air kiss.
Nina is breathtaking.
The gown is simple - black, floor-length, nothing like the elaborate confections other women are wearing - but on her, it looks like royalty.
The fabric skims her curves, hints at the small swell of her belly that’s just starting to show.
She’s put her hair up, exposing the long line of her neck, and the sapphire earrings I gave her in Barcelona catch the light every time she moves.
She’s the most beautiful woman in this room, and she knows it, and she’s using that knowledge like a weapon.
Cole walks between us, thinner than he was a month ago but standing straight. He refused to stay home. Refused to be absent while Newport whispered. He’s here because Nina needs a witness, and he’s determined to be one - even if standing upright for three hours might kill him.
“You sure about this?” I murmured to him in the car.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “But I’m doing it anyway.” Then, quieter, watching the streetlights slide past: “And Adrian - if it comes to it tonight, use it. The cancer. All of it. I’m done hiding from this town.”
“You’re sure?”
“It’s my ammunition. Don’t waste it.”
***
The whispers start the moment we walk in.
I can feel them like a physical pressure - eyes tracking our progress across the room, conversations pausing and resuming behind manicured hands.
The story has spread through Newport’s social ecosystem with the efficiency of a virus: the Moretti marriage is in trouble, the wife has been seen with another man, something happened but nobody knows exactly what.
They think they know. That’s the problem with this town. Everyone thinks they know everything, and they’re almost always wrong.
“Mr. and Mrs. Moretti.” A server appears with a tray of champagne. “How lovely to see you this evening.”
“Thank you.” Nina’s voice is smooth as silk. She takes a glass, doesn’t drink from it.
We make our way toward a corner, away from the densest crowd. I keep my hand on the small of her back - possessive, deliberate, a message to anyone watching. She’s mine. We’re together. Whatever you’ve heard is wrong.
But we’re not quite fast enough.
“Nina.” Vivienne materializes like she’s been summoned by the whispers themselves.
“How wonderful that you could come. And Adrian.” Her smile is perfect, practiced, poisonous.
“And-” Her eyes land on Cole, and something flickers there.
Recognition. Calculation. The particular gleam of a predator spotting wounded prey.
“Mr. Reeves. I heard you were back in town.”
“News travels fast,” Cole says mildly.
“It does in Newport.” Vivienne’s smile doesn’t waver. “I was so sorry to hear about your... situation. It must be difficult, being ill so far from your real friends.”
The emphasis on “real” is slight but unmistakable. A reminder that Nina’s friendship with Cole has been the subject of gossip for months. A suggestion that whatever comfort Nina has offered isn’t the kind friends provide.
“My real friends are right here,” Cole says. His voice is steady, but I can see the effort it’s costing him to stay upright.
“Of course they are.” Vivienne turns to Nina, her eyes raking over the simple black gown. “Darling, you look stunning. That dress is so... understated. Very brave.”
“Thank you.” Nina’s voice is cool as glass, sharp as a blade. “And this gala is so well-organized. I’m sure the foundation is grateful for all your hard work. It must be exhausting, caring so much about cancer patients.”
The dig lands. I watch Vivienne’s smile tighten, just for a moment, before she recovers.
“It’s a labor of love,” she says sweetly. “Some of us give our time. Others give their... attention.”
The verbal sparring continues for another minute, each woman delivering compliments that sound like knife wounds. Then Vivienne is called away by another guest, and we’re left alone with our champagne and our carefully maintained composure.
“She’s going to try something,” Nina says quietly.
“Probably.” I put my hand on her back again, feel the tension in her spine. “But she can’t hurt us anymore. Not after everything that’s come out.”
“She doesn’t know about Cole’s treatment. She doesn’t know I’ve been paying for it.”
“Does it matter?”
Nina looks at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“It will,” she says. “Before tonight is over, it will.”
***
The evening progresses in stages.
Cocktails in the grand foyer, where I shake hands with men who’ve been spreading rumors about my wife and smile like I don’t want to break their fingers.
Dinner in the ballroom, where the seating chart has been carefully arranged to maximize awkwardness - we’re at a table near the back, far from the social center, a deliberate snub that Nina absorbs with perfect composure.
Speeches about the foundation’s work, the importance of cancer research, the generosity of Newport’s finest families. Vivienne presides over it all with the practiced grace of a woman who has done this many times before.
“She’s good at this,” Cole murmurs, watching her work the room.
“She’s had practice.”
“Doesn’t make it less impressive.” He takes a careful sip of water - no alcohol, not with his medications. “Or less terrifying.”
Then comes the toast.
“If I could have everyone’s attention.” Vivienne rises from her seat at the head table, champagne glass in hand. The chandeliers seem to brighten around her, like even the light knows its cue. “I want to take a moment to acknowledge some special guests.”
My stomach tightens. Beside me, Nina goes very still.
“As many of you know, our community has faced some... interesting developments lately.” Vivienne’s smile is serene, her voice carrying easily across the silent room. “Marriages tested. Loyalties questioned. The sort of drama that Newport hasn’t seen in years.”
Here it comes, I think. Whatever she’s been planning, this is it.
“But tonight, I want to celebrate the strength that comes from truth.” She turns toward our table, and every eye in the room follows. “Nina Moretti, who has always been such a devoted friend. So generous with her time and attention. So willing to offer... comfort to those in need.”
The subtext is thick enough to cut. Someone at a nearby table actually gasps.
“To friendship,” Vivienne says, raising her glass. “In all its forms.”
The response is scattered - some people drinking, others exchanging glances, a few openly staring at our table - but before anyone can move on, Vivienne is descending from the dais. Crossing the ballroom floor. Heading directly toward us with another glass of champagne in her hand.
“Nina, darling.” She stops directly in front of my wife, close enough that I can smell her perfume. “You should have some. A little celebration never hurt anyone.”
She holds out the glass.
Nina doesn’t take it.
“I’m not drinking tonight,” Nina says evenly. “But thank you.”
“Oh, come now.” Vivienne’s smile sharpens. “One glass won’t hurt. Unless there’s a reason you’re abstaining?”
The question hangs in the air. A trap. If Nina admits she’s pregnant, it becomes another piece of gossip. If she denies it, she’s lying.
“Vivienne-” I start.
But Vivienne isn’t looking at me. She’s looking at Nina with an expression of pure, calculated malice.
And then her wrist tips.
***
The champagne arcs through the air in slow motion.
I see it happen - the deliberate twist of her hand, the liquid catching the light as it leaves the glass - and I’m too far away to stop it.
A full glass of champagne pours down the front of Nina’s black gown.
The cold hits her first. I see her body jerk, see the shock register on her face for just a fraction of a second. The silk clings to her skin, soaked through, the fabric going translucent in patches.
And then - nothing.
Nina doesn’t move. Doesn’t scream. Doesn’t cry. Doesn’t throw the glass back, though God knows she’d be justified.
She just stands there, dripping, face composed, while the whole room watches. While Vivienne smirks. While the chandeliers scatter light across the champagne pooling at her feet.
She looks at Vivienne with an expression of absolute, devastating calm.
“Oops,” Vivienne says. “How clumsy of me.”
The silence is deafening.
I can hear my own heartbeat. I can hear someone at a nearby table breathing too hard. I can hear the slow drip of champagne from Nina’s hem to the marble floor.
Fuck the room. Fuck the name. Fuck every rule I was raised on.
And something in me snaps.
***
I’m moving before I’ve decided to move.
I walk past my mother, who has half-risen from her chair with an expression I’ve never seen before.
I walk past the Ashfords and the Pembertons and every watching family in Newport.
I walk past years of careful social maneuvering, quiet compliance, the unwritten rules that say you don’t make scenes, you don’t air dirty laundry, you don’t ever - ever - call someone a liar in public.
I walk until I’m standing beside my wife. Until I can see the champagne soaking through her dress, the goosebumps rising on her arms, the slight tremble in her hands that she’s trying so hard to hide.
And then I turn to face the room.