Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“You look stunning, by the way.”
Mal says it casually, one hand resting on the small of my back as we approach the entrance of the Bellamy Cove Country Club.
His touch is warm through the silk of my dress—a champagne-colored number I’d agonized over for three days before finally admitting that yes, I was trying to impress my mother, and no, it wasn’t going to work regardless of what I wore.
“You’ve said that four times.”
“I’ll say it a fifth. You look—”
“Stunning. Yes.” I pause at the carved double doors, my reflection staring back at me from the polished brass handles. “That’s not going to matter in approximately thirty seconds.”
“Your mother doesn’t appreciate aesthetic excellence?”
“My mother appreciates perfection. Everything else is just varying degrees of acceptable failure.”
The valet has already taken Mal’s car—a sleek black thing that had materialized three weeks ago and which I’d learned not to ask about. He’d insisted on driving, claiming that arriving in my sensible Honda would “undermine the carefully constructed air of mystery” he’d been cultivating.
I hadn’t argued. Arguing with Mal about dramatic gestures is like arguing with the tide about coming in.
“Ready?” he asks.
“No.”
“Good. Uncertainty keeps you sharp.” He squeezes my hip briefly. “I’ll be right beside you.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Isadora.” He turns me to face him, his dark eyes serious. “Whatever happens in there, I need you to remember something.”
“What?”
“You are extraordinary. Not because of her approval. Not because of your accomplishments. Not because of anything you’ve done or failed to do.” His thumb traces my jaw. “You simply are. And nothing she says can change that.”
My throat tightens. “Mal—”
“Ready now?”
I take a breath. “As I’ll ever be.”
He opens the door.
The country club’s main ballroom has been transformed into a vision of elegant minimalism that screams Carmen Solis from every precisely placed flower arrangement.
White orchids. Crystal chandeliers dimmed to that specific golden glow that photographs well.
Servers in crisp black uniforms circulating with expensive champagne in crystal flutes
Approximately eighty people fill the space—old dance colleagues, local society figures, and a scattering of faces I vaguely recognize from childhood. My mother’s world, carefully curated to reflect her impeccable taste.
“Impressive,” Mal murmurs.
“She’s had sixty years to perfect her aesthetic.”
“Fifty-eight,” a familiar voice cuts in. “I do hope you’re not adding years to my age, Isadora.”
My mother emerges from a cluster of admirers like a queen accepting tribute. She’s wearing midnight blue silk that somehow manages to look both modest and devastating, with her dark hair swept up in a style that probably took two hours and appears effortlessly tossed together.
She’s beautiful. She’s always been beautiful.
“Happy birthday, Mother.” I step forward to accept the ritual air-kiss to each cheek. “You look wonderful.”
“I look tired. That new facialist was a mistake—far too heavy-handed with the serums.” Her gaze flicks over my dress, my hair, my makeup, cataloging and evaluating in the span of a heartbeat. “Champagne. Safe choice.”
And here we go.
“I thought it suited the occasion.”
“Mm.” Noncommittal. Already dismissive. “And this must be the mysterious plus-one I’ve been hearing about.”
She turns her attention to Mal, and I watch her perform the same instant assessment. But the cut of his suit is impeccable, his shoes are Italian and expensive, and he carries himself with an innate confidence. Her eyebrow goes up a fraction of an inch.
“Malachi Vexis.” He extends his hand with a smile that’s charming without being sycophantic. “It’s an honor to finally meet the woman who raised such an extraordinary daughter.”
Oh, he’s good.
My mother accepts the handshake, her rings glinting in the chandelier light.
“Vexis. I don’t recognize the name. What family?”
“Mediterranean, originally. We’ve been scattered for generations.” A perfectly vague answer that reveals nothing while sounding entirely reasonable. “These days I’m primarily involved in... acquisitions.”
“How interesting.” Translation: I’ll be investigating you thoroughly later. “And how did you meet my daughter?”
“Dance lessons, actually. Isadora was kind enough to take me on as a student despite my complete lack of natural ability.”
“You’re being modest.” The words escape before I can stop them. “He’s an excellent dancer.”
My mother’s eyebrow arches. “Is he? How fortunate. Perhaps you can demonstrate later.”
Trap. Definite trap.
“We’d be happy to,” Mal says smoothly. “Though of course, tonight is about you. I understand congratulations are in order. Fifty-eight years of gracing the world with your presence.”
The flattery lands exactly as intended. My mother’s expression warms by approximately half a degree.
“Charming,” she says. “I can see why Isadora is keeping you around.” She pats my arm in a gesture that’s almost affectionate.
“Mingle, darling. There are people asking about you. The Watsons want to know when you’re competing again, and Mrs. Castellano’s granddaughter is apparently desperate for lessons. ”
“I’ll make the rounds.”
“See that you do. First impressions matter, even at family gatherings.” She sweeps away toward another cluster of guests, midnight silk swirling.
I exhale slowly.
“That was...” Mal trails off.
“Round one. She’s warming up.”
“Warming up?”
“The birthday criticism doesn’t start until after the first round of champagne.” I grab a glass from a passing server. “Come on. Let’s get the social obligations over with.”
The next hour is a gauntlet of polite conversation and barely veiled interrogation.
How is the studio doing, dear? Are you still teaching children’s classes? Have you thought about expanding? Your mother mentioned the showcase—is it wise to compete when your business needs attention?
Each question carries an edge, a subtle implication that my choices are questionable, my priorities misaligned. I smile until my face aches and deliver the expected responses while Mal stands beside me, a steady presence that keeps me grounded.
He’s good at this, I realize. Better than good.
He navigates the social minefield with the ease of someone who’s spent centuries dealing with far more dangerous conversations.
His hand finds mine at exactly the right moments.
His comments defuse tension without causing offense.
He redirects conversations that are veering toward uncomfortable territory.
“Your daughter has transformed that studio,” he tells Mrs. Castellano with complete sincerity. “The children adore her. She has a gift for making even the most nervous students feel capable.”
“The Bellamy Cove Showcase will be remarkable this year,” he assures Mr. Watson. “Isadora’s choreography is unlike anything I’ve experienced. People will be talking about it for years.”
He’s defending me, I realize. Not overtly—nothing that would cause a scene—but persistently building a counter-narrative to whatever doubts these people have been harboring.
“Thank you,” I murmur during a rare quiet moment. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” His eyes meet mine. “Everything I’ve said is true, by the way. I’m not performing for them.”
“Mal—”
“Isadora.” My mother’s voice cuts across the crowd. “A moment?”
I stiffen, and Mal’s hand tightens on mine.
“It’s fine,” I say, though I’m not sure if I’m reassuring him or myself. “I’ll be right back.”
My mother leads me through the French doors to the terrace, away from the crowd. The night air is cool against my heated skin, carrying the scent of the manicured gardens below.
“He’s quite the catch,” she says without preamble. “Handsome. Charming. Obviously wealthy.” A pause. “Where’s the flaw?”
“Excuse me?”
“No one is that perfect, Isadora. There’s always something lurking underneath.” She turns to face me, her expression unreadable. “What aren’t you telling me?”
He’s a three-hundred-and-fifty-year-old demon bound by an infernal contract that I’m apparently helping him escape.
“There’s nothing to tell. We met at the studio. We’re partners for the showcase.”
“Partners.” She says the word like it’s coated in something distasteful. “Is that what you’re calling it?”
“What would you prefer?”
“The truth would be refreshing.” Her eyes narrow. “You’re different with him. Softer. More distracted. I saw the way you looked at him during the Watson conversation—like you’d forgotten anyone else was in the room.”
“That’s not—”
“Don’t.” Her voice sharpens. “Don’t insult my intelligence. I know what infatuation looks like, Isadora. I’ve seen enough of it in my students over the years. The question is whether you’re thinking clearly or letting your emotions compromise your judgment.”
The criticism lands exactly where it’s meant to—the soft vulnerable center of every fear I’ve been carrying.
“My judgment is fine.”
“Is it? The studio has been struggling for months. You’re entering a showcase that requires extensive preparation. And now you’re involved with a man who appeared out of nowhere with no verifiable background?” She shakes her head. “This isn’t like you. You’re usually so... controlled.”
Controlled. Like that’s a compliment.
“Maybe I’m tired of being controlled.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. My mother’s eyebrow arches again, and then her expression turns harder.
“Is that so?”
“I’ve spent my entire life trying to meet your standards. Every choice, every decision, filtered through the question of whether you’d approve.” My voice is shaking. I can’t seem to stop it. “And you know what I’ve learned? It doesn’t matter. Nothing I do will ever be good enough.”
“Isadora—”