14. Chapter 14
A ria
A ripple passed through the crowd near the archway as a tall, unmistakable silhouette paused just beyond the threshold.
A head of rich, brown curls-ruthlessly tamed into elegant submission-caught the light. He was laughing at something someone said behind him, his jaw sharp, his smile slow and indulgent.
The tailored suit he wore had been cut to fit him-broad across the shoulders, tapered at the waist, the fabric expensive enough to drape like liquid steel.
A glimpse of his white shirt, crisp and gleaming, peeped beneath the tailored jacket.
Diamond cufflinks sparkled discreetly at his wrists, and his polished leather loafers clicked softly against the stone floor as he stepped forward.
There was something fluid about the way he carried himself, like a man sculpted with effortless power and beauty.
Crispin
He stepped into the room with a practised air of command, dressed in a deep charcoal suit that seemed to drink in the light. His cobalt blue eyes scanned the crowd...and stopped.
Right on her .
For a breathless moment, the air seemed to freeze.
As if on cue, an elegant hand with slender fingers tipped with pale polish touched Crispin's shoulder, the gesture both intimate and possessive.
Helga appeared just behind him. Her svelte frame was wrapped in a sculpted black Dior dress that seemed to be poured over her body, her blonde hair swept into a sculpted updo.
Her posture was immaculate, chin slightly lifted, shoulders pulled back as though she had been trained to command.
A flawless diamond earring glinted on her earlobe.
After what seemed to be a calculated pause, she moved forward and placed her hand on Crispin's arm with the easy familiarity of someone used to possession. As if prompting him to remember himself or redirect his attention.
Still distracted, his cobalt gaze drifted across the room before Crispin bent his head slightly to hear what she said. His smile was stiff, not quite reaching his eyes. He nodded once before looking back at Helga, his mask firmly in place.
He smiled, tight and dutiful, and nodded to whatever she'd said, his eyes not quite lighting.
Then, reluctantly, he turned back to the room .
"Well, the royalty has arrived," Dorian murmured from behind them. Then, with an almost theatrical sweep of his arm, prompted them forward. "They make a lovely couple, don't they? Let's not keep the prince and his consort waiting."
Crispin looked over, and Aria could swear he looked like he'd just bitten into a particularly sour lemon.
Helga's expression brightened with recognition, her voice suddenly more animated.
"Dorian!" she said, her smile enthusiastic as she reached up to kiss him on the cheek.
Then she turned to Ophelia. "And you must be Ophelia.
I've heard so much about you." Her tone dripped with well-practiced charm and condescension.
Ophelia offered a cool smile, extending her hand, but there was a tension in her spine Aria didn't miss.
Throughout it all, Aria stood a pace behind, as though blending into the shadows.
Helga's eyes flicked to her once-an almost imperceptible narrowing of her gaze-but she said nothing.
It was Dorian who broke the silence, voice smooth and sharp as a knife. "Helga, this is Aria, Ophelia's...carer."
The word was measured, just the right shade of dismissive .
Helga offered a brief, polite smile. "How kind," she murmured, already turning back to Ophelia. "I hope you've been feeling well. You look wonderful."
If Ophelia noticed the slight, she didn't show it, except in the faint cooling of her smile. "I manage," she said.
Aria stood still, her face serene, her pulse hammering. The pendant felt heavier by the second.
Crispin, perhaps sensing the shift, finally stepped forward, embracing Ophelia with a warmth that Aria hadn't expected.
His hand lingered on her back, a genuine smile breaking through the facade.
"Ophelia," he said fondly. "Still as formidable as ever.
Have you been terrorizing your gardener again? "
"Oh, don't start with me." She laughed, relaxing slightly. "I remember the trouble you and Dorian used to get into. The neighbour still flinches at the word 'paintball.'"
Crispin grinned sheepishly. "That was entirely Dorian's fault."
"I haven't forgotten the time you lit the fuse," Ophelia said. "And you both deserve prison time for almost burning down Surrey in the process."
"I haven't seen you in ages," he murmured .
"You never call," Ophelia said lightly. "Where's your mother?"
"On her way. Dad had a late day at the office."
"As usual," Ophelia said, then added under her breath, "God help your poor mum."
Aria stood a step behind, her palms slightly damp, her stomach churning. The lights, the noise, the scent of perfume all seemed to coalesce around her like smoke. Her chest felt tight.
She felt like she was quietly vanishing.
"Come, Aria. We need to mingle," Ophelia said, breaking through Aria's anxiety. Her eyes were concerned. Are you alright? they silently asked.
Aria shook herself internally and gave her a wobbly smile.
They mingled, drifting between guests. Aria remained quiet, a silent shadow at Ophelia's side.
Then Crispin's family arrived: his petite mother, her salt-and-pepper hair swept elegantly back; his sister Alice, tall and wide-eyed wearing pale blue silk; and his father, a shorter, broader version of Crispin, still handsome and charming.
They greeted Crispin and Helga with the warmth of long-standing familiarity .
Aria sat on a chair by the side, watching the room blur in a sheen of crystal glass and designer perfume. Ophelia was in an animated conversation with an old friend from her Cambridge days.
Dorian appeared, as if summoned by the quiet tension in the air.
"They look good together, don't they?" he said softly, his eyes fixed on Crispin and Helga, who were now deep in conversation with Crispin's mother. "Polished. Photogenic. Equally well-bred."
Aria said nothing.
He tilted his head, considering her like an unsolved riddle. "Would you like some wine? Might help settle the nerves."
"No, thank you"
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Suit yourself."
There was a pause before he leaned in just enough that only she could hear.
"Now do you see where you stand, little maid?" he murmured, his tone warm, almost paternal. "Understand what you are? Decorative, yes. But temporary. Always temporary."
Her throat tightened and she swallowed past the lump that had lodged there like a rock.
"You're not the first," he went on, almost wistful. "Crispin's always had a thing for charity projects. That wounded look, the tragic silences...it's like catnip to him. But it never lasts. "
Her spine straightened slowly. "I always planned to leave."
His smile sharpened. "Mm. Then do us all a favour and make it graceful."
He turned slightly towards her, his voice lowering. "And for God's sake, stop preying on my godmother. She's sentimental and half-blind, not stupid. You've got just enough looks to pass for genuine concern, but I see what you're doing."
Her jaw clenched . "I'll return the necklace after tonight."
"Oh, I'm counting on that. You are a smart girl."
He took the seat beside her, uninvited, one leg crossed neatly over the other, scanning the room with studied disinterest. Then, without looking at her, he said, “You're no match for Helga.
She's fluent in five languages, has a double masters from Cambridge, and was featured in Times.
You're a high school dropout with soft eyes and no pedigree. You don't even know which fork to use."
Aria stared straight ahead, unflinching.
He gave a theatrical sigh and leaned closer, breath tinged with vintage wine. "Let me know when you're ready for a sugar daddy after Crispin's done. I'm told I'm very generous to lost girls. "
He stood and smoothed his jacket. "Chin up, darling. The show's about to begin."
Aria sat still, blinking hard, her vision blurring just for a moment. But she didn't cry.
She knew how to keep the tears in.