Chapter Twenty-Two
Cecily’s grip on my elbow is light but unyielding as she guides me away from John, her perfect posture and calm smile shielding us from curious onlookers. My legs move automatically, but my head is spinning. This is Guy’s mother. The one he claimed was dead. How is she here, looking so poised and alive, as if she’s stepped right out of a society column?
My chest tightens. What does she know about me? What does she want?
"I never liked John, you know," she says conversationally, as if she’s reading my mind. "Always so self-important. People like him always reveal their true colors eventually, don’t they?"
I glance at her, trying to figure out what game she’s playing, but her expression is smooth, unreadable. Her lips curve into a smile that could be friendly, but I’m not naive enough to trust it.
"Thank you," I manage to say, though I’m not sure what I’m thanking her for—rescuing me from John, or keeping her claws to herself for now.
She steers me to a small table draped in white linen and gestures to a waiter for champagne. "You look lovely tonight, by the way. That dress—so striking. Jack’s work, I assume?"
"Uh, yeah." My voice feels distant, like it belongs to someone else. How does she even know Jack?
Cecily’s smile widens, and I can’t tell if it’s approval or amusement. "He always did have an eye for what suits a woman. And you wear it beautifully. Very... commanding."
I don’t respond. My brain is too busy trying to untangle the threads of what’s happening. What is her angle? Why is she so polite? Guy has to know I’m here. Does she?
"Drink up, darling," she says, nodding to the glass that’s suddenly in my hand. "A little champagne is just the thing to steady the nerves at these dreadful events. Don’t you think?"
Her tone is light, almost conspiratorial, like we’re just two women rolling our eyes at society’s pretensions. But the words steady the nerves sit heavy in my chest. She knows something. She must.
Before I can find a way to ask, she leans in closer, her voice dropping to something soft and almost wistful. "Goodness," she murmurs, her gaze roaming over my face, "but you look like your mother."
I freeze. The glass slips in my hand, catching against my palm, but I don’t dare let it fall. My heart stumbles, the champagne bubbles suddenly thick and cloying in my throat.
"What?" My voice cracks, barely audible.
Cecily tilts her head, studying me with an expression I can’t read. There’s a flicker of something in her eyes—sadness, maybe? Regret? But it’s gone as quickly as it came.
"You do," she says simply, like it’s a fact I should already know. "It’s uncanny, really."
The champagne glass feels like an anchor in my hand, its cool weight grounding me even as Cecily’s words spin my head. You look like your mother. The sentence lingers, charged and heavy, until I finally manage to ask, "You knew her?"
Cecily tilts her head slightly, her sharp, appraising gaze softening. "Oh, yes. Your mother and I were good friends once. We grew up together, did everything together—ballet, summer picnics, debutante balls." She gives a faint laugh. "You could hardly think of one of us without the other back then."
I blink at her, struggling to reconcile the image she’s painting with the mother I remember. "I didn’t know she...was part of all that."
"Of course you didn’t." Cecily’s voice is gentle but knowing, like she’s offering some great insight. "She left that world behind when she chose your father. But back then? She was the darling of our set—bright, charming, utterly impossible not to adore."
"That sounds..." I hesitate, searching for the right word. "Strange. I can’t picture her like that." I can’t imagine my mother in the world Cecily is describing. The mother I remember wore jeans and gardening gloves, hummed old folk songs under her breath while planting daisies in the yard. But this version? Dancing through ballrooms and sitting for teas in lace gloves? It feels like a story about someone else.
"Can’t you?" Cecily gives me a long, assessing look. "I can see the resemblance. Not just in your face, but in the way you carry yourself. That same fire."
Fire. My chest tightens. "I don’t feel much like her," I admit, half-hoping she’ll drop the subject.
Cecily, of course, doesn’t. "I was there, you know, the night she announced she was choosing Richard." She folds her hands neatly in front of her, her voice taking on a reflective tone. "It was quite the shock. Everyone assumed she’d marry someone...safer."
"Safer?" The word comes out sharper than I mean it to. "You mean richer."
Cecily’s lips twitch into a faint smile. "Perhaps. But it wasn’t just about wealth. Richard wasn’t...well, he wasn’t from our world, was he? That made people nervous."
"He was a good man," I say defensively, though my voice wavers. Memories of my father are so fragmented now—half-remembered smiles and the sound of his laugh—but they’re enough to stoke a fierce protectiveness.
"I’m sure he was," Cecily says, her tone oddly sincere. "And your mother knew it. She stood there, head held high, and told the whole room she’d found her true love. Said it didn’t matter what anyone thought, that she was going to follow her heart." She shakes her head, a small, wistful smile crossing her face. "The courage that must have taken... It was scandalous, of course, but I admired her for it."
"Admired her?" I repeat, incredulous. "Why?"
Cecily raises a perfectly arched brow. "Because true love, my dear, is the rarest thing in the world. And the boldness to claim it, to defy everything for it? That’s even rarer."
I want to scoff, to tell her that all the courage in the world didn’t stop tragedy from finding them both. But I can’t. The way she’s looking at me—like she’s trying to see past my skin and into something deeper—makes me hesitate.
"Did she... Did she ever talk about it? About what it was like after?" My voice drops, the question almost too fragile to ask.
Cecily pauses, her expression softening. "Not much. By then, she’d left our circles. But I always wondered if she regretted it. I suppose I’ll never know." Her gaze sharpens again, pinning me in place. "But you, Maren—you’ve got that same fire in you. I can see it."
"I don’t know about that," I murmur, looking away. The idea of inheriting something so strong from my mother feels...weighty. And wrong. I’m not brave. I’m just trying to survive.
"You underestimate yourself," Cecily says, a touch of steel creeping into her voice. "But I don’t. And neither should you."
Cecily’s arm remains looped lightly through mine as she guides me toward the conservatory’s edge. I’m about to ask her more—What was my mother really like? What else do you know about her?—when a deep voice cuts through the low hum of conversation.
"There you are."
I freeze, the champagne glass going cold in my hand as Guy Gisborne steps into view. His presence is suffocating, all dark suits and perfectly curated menace, and the way his eyes rake over me sends a chill down my spine. His smile is sharp, predatory, as he closes the distance between us.
"Cecily." He nods to his mother with an air of faint irritation, like he’s indulging her. Then his gaze locks onto me. "And Maren." The way he says my name feels like a hand tightening around my wrist. "You’ve been keeping her all to yourself?"
Cecily’s expression is serene, her smile perfectly controlled. "Just us girls having a little chat. I’m sure you understand."
Guy’s smile widens, but his eyes narrow slightly, flicking between us. "Of course." Then, without waiting for a reply, he slides his hand to the small of my back, steering me away from Cecily with a possessiveness that makes my stomach turn. "If you’ll excuse us, Mother."
"Of course." Cecily steps back gracefully, her sharp eyes lingering on me for a beat longer than feels comfortable. Then she disappears into the crowd, leaving me alone with Guy.
The pressure of his hand is light but inescapable as he leads me toward a quieter corner of the room. "I wasn’t sure you’d come," he says, his voice smooth, measured. "You’ve been... unpredictable lately."
I force a small laugh, tilting my head to look at him with what I hope passes for sincerity. "Can you blame me? It’s been a whirlwind."
His eyes search my face, and I can almost feel the weight of his scrutiny. "And yet, here you are. What changed?"
The moment hangs heavy between us, my pulse pounding in my ears. Sell it, Maren. Sell it like your life depends on it. Because it does.
I exhale softly, letting my shoulders drop just enough to seem vulnerable. "I realized I made a mistake," I say, lowering my voice just enough to make it intimate. "They—" I falter, letting the words catch in my throat. "They were dangerous, Guy. I didn’t see it at first, but you were right about them."
He leans in slightly, the faintest hint of satisfaction flickering in his eyes. "Go on."
"I thought they cared about me," I continue, twisting the words just enough to sound raw. "But the more I saw, the more I realized... I didn’t belong there. They used me. Manipulated me. And when it came down to it, they didn’t care about anything but themselves."
His lips curl into a pleased smile, his grip on my back firming for just a second before he lets go. "I knew you’d see the truth eventually," he says, his voice rich with self-satisfaction. "You’re too smart to fall for their lies forever."
I swallow the bile rising in my throat and force a weak, grateful smile. "I don’t know what I was thinking. But I’m here now. I want to make things right."
"You’ve already taken the first step." His smile sharpens. "And you’re here with me. That’s all that matters."
He believes me. Or at least, he wants to believe me. It’s written all over his face, the smug certainty that he’s won.
“Come,” he says. “There’s lots of people you need to meet.”
With that, Guy is in full performance mode, charming the scattered guests as we weave through the room. He stops to greet a cluster of wealthy donors, his polished smile in place. "Everyone, this is Maren," he announces, his hand still firm at my back. "She’s had quite the journey, but I’m thrilled to have her here tonight."
I force a smile, trying not to think about how far away the doors are now. My voice feels thin as I add, "It’s been a whirlwind, but I’m glad to be back."
The crowd murmurs politely, their gazes flicking over me like I’m something on display. Guy, of course, eats it up, telling them all about "our story" in that perfectly crafted, too-smooth way of his. Every detail he shares feels like a chain tightening around me. And then he twists the knife.
"You know," he says, slipping into that reflective tone he does so well, "Maren’s courage reminds me of her father’s. Richard was such a principled man. Admirable, really. Though, of course..." He pauses, his smile taking on a faintly rueful edge. "Principles don’t always align with the harsh realities of justice, do they?"
The polite chuckles that follow make my skin crawl. My fists clench at my sides as my breath catches in my throat. He doesn’t look at me directly, but I can feel the dig, the mockery disguised as sympathy.
Stay calm. He’s trying to get to you.
"Richard had his strengths," I say lightly, forcing myself to meet his gaze, "but he wasn’t afraid to stand for what he believed in. That’s something, isn’t it?"
Guy’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he moves us along, steering me farther from the crowd. My pulse quickens as the ornate chandeliers and murmuring guests give way to dimmer, quieter hallways. The noise of the conservatory fades behind us, replaced by the faint echo of our footsteps.
"Let’s talk privately," Guy says, his tone warm but insistent.
The word privately sends a jolt through me. I glance over my shoulder again, but there’s no one. No shifters. No safety net. Just me and Guy in the growing silence.
"I think we’re fine here," I say, trying to sound casual. But my voice comes out thinner than I’d like, and he doesn’t even slow down.
"Nonsense," he replies smoothly, opening a heavy oak door and gesturing for me to step inside. "This won’t take long."
I hesitate for a fraction of a second, my panic spiking. Every instinct I have screams at me to stay in the open, where the others can see. Where they can intervene if things go wrong. But his hand is still at my back, a subtle pressure that leaves me no choice—unless I want to make some kind of scene.
My heart starts to race as we approach the door to the conservatory. I glance over my shoulder, hoping for a glimpse of someone—anyone—that will steady me. But Guy notices. Of course, he notices.
I manage a faint smile, but my palms are damp, my stomach churning. The distance between us and the crowd is growing with every step.
I can’t help the flicker of panic tightening my chest. This wasn’t the plan. Stay visible. Stay where they can see you.
In here, I’m under their watch. Out there, in the quiet halls of Guy’s domain, I’m exposed.