Chapter 5 #2
She looked breathtaking. Wild. Dangerous.
The relief that washed over me was so profound it made my knees weak.
She had come. She hadn’t filed for divorce on Friday.
She hadn’t gone to the press. She was here, playing the part, standing by my side when I needed her most. She had processed the shock, and her loyalty to our marriage had held firm.
I almost laughed with relief.
I crossed the terrace, reaching her just as my father turned to see her.
“Grace, darling,” I said, catching her hand.
Her fingers were ice-cold, stiff and unresponsive, but she didn’t pull away.
“Adrian,” she said. Her voice was smooth, modulated, but utterly devoid of warmth. She turned to my father who’d limped to my side, offering a dazzling, blinding smile. “Conrad. I am so sorry I’m late. The traffic coming out of the city was simply barbaric.”
My father’s stern expression melted into a fond smile. He had always liked Grace’s grace. “All is forgiven, my dear. We were just waiting for the lady of the hour to cut the cake.”
“Of course,” Grace said smoothly. She turned to me, her green eyes looking feline and sharp.
There was something profoundly different in them. The soft, pliable devotion I relied on was gone, replaced by something hard, flat, and impenetrable.
“Shall we?” she asked.
“Yes,” I breathed, squeezing her hand, desperate to convey my overwhelming gratitude. Thank you, I wanted to say. Thank you for saving me. I will fix this. I swear I will fix everything.
We walked to the center of the lawn, where a massive, tiered cake sat on a linen-draped table.
The string quartet stopped playing. The low hum of conversation faded into silence as a hundred pairs of eyes turned toward us.
The board members. The senior partners. Nolan.
My father. The entire Wright empire, waiting for the heir to be announced.
A waiter stepped forward, offering two flutes of vintage champagne on a silver tray. I took one. Grace took the other.
“Friends, family,” I started, pitching my voice to carry over the silent lawn, projecting absolute authority. “Thank you all for being here today to celebrate with us. The last seven years with Grace have been the greatest of my life, and today...”
I looked at Grace, expecting her to take the silver cake knife, to make the cut that would reveal the blue sponge inside, securing my future.
Instead, she took a step away from me.
She turned to face the crowd, raising her champagne flute. The late afternoon sunlight caught the crystal, throwing fractured rainbows across her emerald dress.
But she didn't drink, and she didn't speak.
She set the flute down beside the reveal cake — six white tiers nobody was supposed to touch until the photographer had arranged us behind it, my hand over hers on the silver knife — and cut into it alone.
One clean stroke, then another. The sponge came away blue.
A boy. Somewhere in the crowd a woman started to clap and thought better of it.
Grace plated the single slice with a casual, professional efficiency that made the caterers look slow, licked a smear of buttercream from her thumb, and picked her glass back up.
"I'd like to propose a toast," Grace said, her voice ringing out, clear and unwavering.
A murmur of polite agreement rippled through the guests. My father nodded approvingly, raising his own glass.
“To Adrian,” Grace continued. She turned her head slightly to look at me. Her smile was devastatingly perfect. “And to Celine.”
The polite murmurs died instantly. A heavy, confused silence descended on the lawn.
My blood turned to ice. “Grace,” I hissed under my breath, reaching for her arm.
She ignored me, stepping out of my reach, keeping her eyes locked on the crowd, her voice carrying beautifully over the manicured grass.
“It takes a village to raise a child,” Grace said, her tone conversational, pleasant, as if she were commenting on the beautiful weather. “But it only takes two people to make one. And I think it’s only right that we celebrate the true parents today.”
She turned her gaze to where Celine was standing, frozen, near the edge of the patio.
“Congratulations, Celine,” Grace said, raising her glass higher. “And congratulations, Adrian. On the beautiful baby boy you conceived together—in bed.”
A collective gasp swept through the crowd, sucking the oxygen out of the air.
Nolan’s wife dropped her glass; it shattered on the stone patio with a sharp, violent crack.
My father gripped his silver-handled cane with both hands, his face turning an alarming shade of purple.
The board members stared in absolute, horrified silence.
The world didn’t spin. It just dropped out from under me.
Grace turned back to me. The perfect smile was gone, leaving only the cold, hard, merciless woman she had become.
She reached for her left hand.
Slowly, deliberately, she slid the ten-carat flawless diamond engagement ring and the matching platinum wedding band off her finger.
She held them over my champagne flute and let go.
The heavy rings dropped into the vintage champagne with a soft plink, sinking instantly to the bottom of the glass.
Grace didn’t say another word. She didn’t look at my father, or Nolan, or Celine. She turned around and walked across the manicured lawn, the emerald silk of her dress swishing softly in the summer breeze.