Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Isla
My reflection in the cottage’s full-length mirror catches me off guard. Once more, a woman I barely recognize stares back. My lips are swollen, my cheeks flushed, and the silver collar at my throat gleams, part vow, part threat.
The silk of my dress clings to my skin, my nipples shamelessly peaked without a bra, just as Dorian demanded.
His seed, still drying on my thighs, is a primal mark of possession, and Brennan’s scent—leather and spice—lingers on my chest where I rubbed his essence into me.
I’m a canvas of their desire, and God help me, I’m not ashamed. Not anymore.
When I faced Celeste and Everett, I wasn’t just Dorian’s wife, the substitute bride shoved into a role I never wanted. I was me —sharp, defiant, a force they didn’t expect.
I was unaccountably angry when Everett tried to warn Dorian against running.
A fierce and unexpected loyalty surged in me, hot and unyielding, because Dorian will be extraordinary.
He’s got the looks, the connections, the charisma that commands a room, and a ruthless drive that could reshape the Senate, maybe even the country.
I know he doesn’t need me to defend him—not with Celeste’s cunning and Brennan’s unwavering strength at his side. But I spoke up not out of duty, not to play the obedient wife. I did it because I couldn’t stay silent.
Their words— secret weapon , Kingmaker —echo in my skull, mingling with the memory of Dorian’s tongue, Brennan’s hands, and the way I shattered under them.
I’m not the quiet second daughter anymore, not the bookish girl hiding behind a PhD.
I’m something new, something dangerous, and the power of it hums in my veins.
But there’s a shadow beneath it. Dorian’s words— I got married for the sake of this campaign —sting like a blade.
I know why I’m here, why he accepted me when Margaux ran away.
I’m a means to an end, a pawn in his Senate bid, maybe even the White House.
Yet when he squeezed my hand under the table, pride in his eyes, it felt real.
And Brennan’s quiet nod, his arm brushing mine, grounded me.
I touch the cool and unyielding metal of my collar. The beautiful piece is a reminder of my surrender. But it’s not just to them—it’s to myself, to the woman I’m becoming. Giselle’s voice whispers again: “ Get out of your own way.”
Maybe I’m not entirely sure what that means, but I’m working on it.
Calypso stretches on her perch, blinking at me with lazy green eyes, oblivious to the war inside me. She licks her paw, readjusts her position, and closes her eyes again.
I should feel guilty for not spending more time with her, but Brennan has been keeping her busy, tossing play mice for her to chase, and he’s keeping her fed. Considering I hadn’t been sure how she’d react to them, I now feel like yesterday’s news. She’s clearly in love with Brennan .
I grin, not at all upset. She deserves to be spoiled and pampered.
“Ready, little one?” Dorian’s voice, low and commanding, pulls me from my thoughts. He’s leaning against the doorframe, all tailored slacks and predatory grace, his steel-gray eyes stripping me bare.
Brennan’s beside him, tie loosened, his icy gaze softer but no less intense. “We have an appointment.”
I smooth my dress, hyperaware of my nakedness beneath it, the way my body still aches from them. “Are you going to tell me where?”
Dorian’s lips curve, wicked and secretive. “You’ll see.”
Brennan offers his arm, and I take it, my fingers curling into the warmth of his sleeve. As I’m coming to expect, Dorian places his hand on the small of my back possessively as he guides me out the door.
The SUV is waiting for us, and we head back toward the New Orleans area.
Instead of going to the French Quarter as I expect, we turn onto a quiet street in the Garden District. The area is even more beautiful than I remember with sunlight filtering through towering oaks that are draped in Spanish moss. “Where are we going?”
“Almost there.”
We roll to a stop in front of an iron gate woven with jasmine. A single brass plaque reads Vignette. Nothing else.
After the experiences Dorian pulled off at Vieille Rivière and at Mademoiselle’s shop, I’m a little nervous.
Before I can ask how we’re getting in, the gate opens.
Of course it does.
The driveway is a wide arc of crushed oyster shells that crunch beneath the tires as the SUV glides to a stop under a canopy of moss-draped oaks. The driver doesn’t speak as he slips out and opens the doors with quiet efficiency .
As always, Brennan is the first to exit, and he extends a hand for me.
“This is a good surprise,” he assures me.
Skeptical, I frown.
A moment later, Dorian is at my side.
With my men flanking me, we walk up a stone path that’s lined with camellias and lush hydrangeas.
As we climb the stairs, I take in the mansion. It’s a stunning example of pure Southern Gothic elegance—Greek Revival with fluted columns and black shutters, a place that whispers of old ghosts and even older money.
Before Brennan can knock, a man opens the front door.
He’s tall, elegant, in tailored slacks and a linen waistcoat. His skin is warm bronze, his dark curls shot through with silver at the temples. Everything about him radiates curated charm. But it’s his eyes—dark, knowing, amused—that pin me in place.
His gaze shifts briefly to Dorian and Brennan, and something softens. “It’s been too long.” There’s a flicker of real warmth there, as though the past holds layered stories none of them are about to share in front of me.
“Indeed.” Dorian offers a nod, the kind that seems to pass for friendship in their circles. Brennan says nothing,
“Welcome to Vignette,” the man goes on, his voice a smooth drawl kissed with French.
I’m no closer to knowing what this place is or why we’re here.
“You must be Isla. I’m Théo Duplantier.”
“Mr. Duplantier.”
“Théo, please.”
We enter the home, and I’m astounded.
Velvet drapes in midnight blue frame tall windows. The chandeliers dripping from the ceiling are crystal but not ostentatious. Everything glows—the polished wood floors, the soft light. Rare stones are nestled in glass cases like captured stars.
There’s no music, but the silence hums, reverent.
Are we in a jewelry store?
I frown. It doesn’t feel like a shop. Not really. More like a private salon folded inside a historic home, its front parlor transformed into a gallery of light and shadow. Glass display cases are set like small altars with each showing off a single piece or a small collection.
Nothing is labeled, and there are no price tags.
Despite myself, I’m drawn in, and I begin to wander around, even without an invitation.
I’m captivated by a sapphire set in rose gold that looks like it belongs in a museum—or a fairy tale. Another case holds a pair of earrings so delicate I’m afraid to breathe too hard. Every piece feels personal, intentional, as if it’s waiting to be chosen by the right person.
Dorian joins me, and his voice cuts through my wonder.
“We wanted you to have your own engagement ring.”
My breath catches. I hadn’t really thought of it. “The wedding band is all I need.”
“People will wonder. Ask.”
And Margaux’s ring had been featured in more than one gossip column. For our story to hold, it makes sense that he wants me to have my own piece.
Théo appears beside us. “The ring is the final line in a love story—or the first in a new one.”
“A new one,” Dorian agrees.
“You were right to bring her,” Théo says quietly to Dorian, but his eyes never leave me. “The adventure begins.”
Everyone I’ve met seems to talk in vague riddles.
Théo smiles. “May I offer you a glass of champagne or perhaps a café au lait?”
“Café au lait would be lovely,” I say, finding my voice .
He nods, and a few moments later, another person joins us. She’s dressed in a tuxedo, even though it’s still morning, and she’s got a tray containing my beverage and a decanter of whiskey, along with two glasses.
She places everything on a small table that sits between antique chairs upholstered in velvet. Every detail seems to have been especially curated for us.
I sink into one of the chairs and curl my fingers around the warm porcelain. The café au lait is perfect—smooth, rich, just a whisper of sweetness from the milk. As I sip, something catches my eye near the edge of a nearby display.
An opal.
It isn’t in a case like the others. Instead, it rests alone on a velvet tray on a marble pedestal, illuminated by a single downlight that makes its colors flicker like trapped fire.
I put down my drink and go toward it.
The surface is milky and translucent, but when I lean closer, it shimmers with violet and green and a deep, impossible gold.
Théo glances my direction, and a slow smile spreads across his face. “Ah. She sees you too.”
I blink. “The opal?”
“That stone,” he says, approaching it reverently, “was pulled from Lightning Ridge in New South Wales. Mined more than a century ago. It passed through the hands of a French courtesan, a British duchess, and a New Orleans voodoo priestess before disappearing for decades. It reappeared in a private estate sale, and I acquired it. The opal is a stone of truth, of passion, of transformation. It doesn’t just reflect light—it reveals it. ”
He lifts it gently and places it between us on a velvet tray.
“There’s fire in it.”
“Indeed. There is. ”
“This can’t be your engagement ring,” Dorian says flatly. “You need a diamond. Something unmistakable.”
“She will have a diamond,” Théo agrees smoothly.
Still, I can’t look away.
The stone has me mesmerized, which is odd since I’ve never been drawn to opals before, even though they’re my birthstone.
“Let’s explore your preferences,” Théo says a minute or so later, breaking into the trance that I’m in.
He moves to a tall case and opens its hidden clasp. Inside are six engagement rings—each dazzling in its own right. He brings the tray to me with gentle ceremony.