Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
MABLE
The champagne hits my tongue with a burst of bubbles that I feel all the way to my toes. Okay, not all the way to my toes. Wells is the only one who can make them curl. I smile, my cheeks warming thinking about him.
I still can’t believe I lost my virginity this morning.
I so badly wanted to call Truly, but I want her to stay locked in on her own husband.
They had a very rough start. She has been in love with him for most of her life, but she didn’t think he felt the same about her.
She couldn’t have been more wrong. That man was down bad for her.
I had a sense it would end up like that, or I wouldn’t have given her my passport to use.
Still, I can’t believe I actually allowed her to use it, but she is my best friend. There isn’t much I wouldn’t do for her.
Ah, maybe I have been putting myself out there doing things I never would before. This was supposed to be a fun solo trip, and now I’ve gone and lost my virginity to a prince, next in line to be king.
I know of the Montclair family. Of course I’ve heard the name before. They own a very large estate in the States and more than a few businesses. When he’d told me he was from Solaria, I didn’t put together how deeply he’d meant that.
I know the country but not a ton of the ins and outs. I’ll have to do a crash course. If I’m good at anything, it’s studying. People would find it boring and dull, as I’ve been told, but I get the sense if I told Caldwell, he’d find it adorable.
He’s always calling me “sweet thing,” “beautiful,” “gorgeous,” “pretty girl,” and “sweetheart.” I get that silly excited flutter each time.
My phone vibrates in my hand, a message from my mom coming through.
I clear it and then stare at the screen.
I’ve never done that before. I always answer right away, but you know what?
Maybe I’m busy having a life now too, Mom.
Is that mean? I huff a small breath out.
I’ll call her tomorrow and get back to relaxing.
I’m enjoying my afternoon while reliving the lovemaking Caldwell and I shared.
I’ve been sitting in this plush robe for two hours while someone named Jules transforms my hair into soft waves that cascade down my back, and now a very nice woman named Petra is painting my nails a pale pink that apparently costs more than most people spend on a year’s worth of manicures.
Not that I can’t afford it. I was born into a trust fund.
I could buy the spa if I wanted, but still I find myself doing the mental math out of habit.
Growing up with money but not this kind of money is its own strange thing.
I went to the best schools and had the right connections, but the Caldwell world operates on a different frequency entirely.
One I haven’t quite tuned into yet. I’m not sure I want to with these manicures.
Sure, it’s beautiful, but it’s wasteful too.
That’s one thing about my mom dragging me all over the world. You get to see a lot of different countries; with that comes a reality check. That is one thing my mom gave me. She showed me the world. It’s why I went into urban studies.
“I think that should do it, Miss Mable,” Petra says, finishing my last nail with a precise stroke. “Would you like the paraffin treatment for your hands? Very moisturizing.”
“Yes, please,” I say, settling deeper into the chair. I might as well enjoy the full experience. God knows when I’ll have time to relax like this again once we get back to reality.
The spa is all white marble and soft music with women in similar plush robes lounging in various states of pampering.
I recognize a few faces from the society pages—daughters of senators, wives of tech billionaires, women who summer in places you’ve only read about.
They glance at me occasionally, curious but not welcoming. I’m new here. An unknown variable.
I close my eyes and push that all out and focus on Caldwell, which always puts a smile back on me. The way Caldwell looked at me, touched me, and whispered things that made me believe this was real. That I am not just a vacation fling.
A name catches my ear from the chatter of other women nearby.
“...Cordelia, obviously. She’s been here since Tuesday.”
My eyes snap open. Two women are in the hydrotherapy pool nearby, their voices carrying just enough to reach me.
“I just don’t understand why they don’t go public already,” the other woman says, lifting herself to sit on the side. “Everyone knows. It’s been the understanding for years. That’s what his mother Eleanor wants, and what she wants, she always gets.”
“It’s because of the press; that’s my best guess,” the first one says knowingly. “Eleanor wants to control the narrative. You know how she is about the family image. Bet she’s losing her mind over this last-second wedding.”
“Still.” The second woman laughs but drops her voice lower. I have to fight to hear. “We all know they’re fucking. Have been at it for months. The way they look at each other at those charity galas? Please. They’re fucking.”
“Yeah, I see the chemistry, and they do fit well together.”
My champagne flute pauses at my mouth. The room suddenly feels too cold despite the heated floors.
“She’s wearing Valentino to the wedding tonight,” the first woman continues. “Red.” She shakes her head. “Bold choice for a guest, but when you’re basically family...”
“She’ll be gorgeous. They’ll be gorgeous. God, can you imagine the photos? Those two have been inevitable since they were children. Eleanor’s been planning that wedding since they were in diapers.”
I set the flute down with a shaking hand. The sound of it hitting the marble table is too loud, but Petra has stepped away to get more supplies, and no one else seems to notice.
They’re talking about Caldwell. And Cordelia.
He said she meant nothing. It was only an arrangement, not a relationship. That he’d never touched her.
I do the one thing everyone would tell me not to do, and I pull up Google.
It doesn’t take long to find pictures of her.
I recognize her. My stomach sinks. She’s breathtaking, a model.
I know I’ve seen her face before. Holy crap.
I clear the pictures out, not wanting to see them together.
I was only curious what she looked like.
I’ll tell you one thing: She’s the opposite of me in every single way.
I think about the text on his phone this morning.
The way he looked when he saw it, guilty and desperate.
He explained it away so easily, and I believed him because I wanted to.
I didn’t want us to end. Then, being so close to thinking it was over when we’d made up, it was like an explosion hit us both.
But what if I’m just the idiot who believed the prince’s lies because I wanted to be the one he chose?
“Mable?”
I look up to see a woman standing over me, immaculately dressed in a cream silk suit that probably costs more than my car. She’s older and elegant, with Caldwell’s sharp cheekbones and piercing eyes.
“I’m Eleanor Montclair,” she says, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “We need to talk before the wedding, my dear. Shall we walk in the gardens?”
His mother. The woman who arranges “understandings.” The woman who wants to control the narrative.
Is it too late to run? How does she already know about us?! I school my emotions and mentally calm myself down so I don’t look outwardly nervous. First impressions are important, especially on this grand of a stage.
I stand up, still feeling a bit unsteady. “Of course, Mrs. Montclair. I’d love to,” I lie, and the irony isn’t lost on me. “Let me quickly change and I’ll be right out.”
Eleanor’s smile tightens. She’s shorter than me but manages to look down her nose anyway.
“Please, call me Eleanor. Mrs. Montclair makes me sound like a villain in a Disney movie.” If the shoe fits.
I clear that thought immediately, wanting to give her a chance.
“I’ll wait for you by the entrance to the garden. ”
“I won’t be long, Eleanor.”
I change out of my robe and into normal clothes as quickly as possible and head to where we agreed to meet.
“Let’s take a stroll through the gardens. Shall we?”
“I’d love to.” I grab her arm.
She leads us through French doors into a garden that is designed by someone with unlimited money and a wild obsession with symmetry.
Roses bloom in perfect rows. Topiary shaped into geometric forms lines the gravel path.
Everything is controlled, contained, and beautiful in a way that feels slightly suffocating.
“So,” Eleanor says, her voice pleasant, but I catch the edge to it. “You’re the young lady who’s been occupying my son’s time.” What? I inwardly start to panic.
“Occupying?” I repeat, trying to buy time, but it isn’t enough. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”
“Don’t be defensive, my dear. I’m simply trying to understand this situation.
” She stops beside a fountain, turning to face me, eyes assessing.
“My son has never brought anyone to a family event before. Never. So you’ll forgive me for being...
curious.” The way she says “curious” makes it sound like a threat, or maybe I’m just losing it.
“I didn’t realize I was being brought to a family event. I thought I was here for a wedding.”
“Same thing, really.” She plucks a dead leaf from a nearby bush, examining it before dropping it to the ground. “The VanCleefs are old friends. Very old money. Very proper. The kind of people who understand how these things work.”
I feel the trap closing but step into it anyway. “How do things work?”
“Arrangements, my dear. Alliances. The careful navigation of public perception.” She turns to me fully now, her smile gone; in fact, her face is expressionless. “My son has responsibilities. Obligations. A certain... understanding with Cordelia VanCleef that has been in place for many years.”
“Cordelia,” I say, and my voice doesn’t shake. I’m proud of that because I might lose it at any second and end up throwing up on her.
“Yes. Lovely girl. Appropriate background. Suitable temperament. She understands the life, the expectations.” Eleanor tilts her head, studying me like I’m a specimen she’s trapped under a glass.
Did she say temperament? What the heck does that even mean?
! “You, on the other hand, are a mystery. An American librarian, do I understand this correctly?”
“Urban studies,” I correct. “Studied at Imperial Supérieure and graduated summa cum laude. And yes, I run a library. I hope to be a librarian.”
“How quaint.” She doesn’t say it cruelly, but the condescension wraps around the words. “And your family?” I’m sure she already knows.
“Trust fund kid,” I say, lifting my chin. “Old money, by American standards. Not that it matters.”
“Everything matters, Mable. That’s what I’m trying to explain to you.
” She steps closer, her voice dropping to almost sympathetic.
“You’re a cute girl. I’m sure you’re quite...
diverting. But my son needs someone who understands the world he’s inheriting.
Someone who won’t crumble under the pressure of constant scrutiny.
Someone who was raised for this.” It hangs there in the air; I’m not that someone.
Also, how did she make the word “cute” sound offensive? It’s rather impressive, actually.
“Like Cordelia.”
“Exactly like Cordelia.” Eleanor’s eyes soften slightly, which is somehow worse.
It makes me feel meek and pitied. “I’m not trying to be cruel.
” Not sure we agree on that one. “I’m trying to save you both from unnecessary shame.
” Shame?! Ouch. “My son can be... impulsive. He acts on emotion, then regrets it later. This little fling of yours—”
“Please stop,” I tell her. I get the message loud and clear. I went to Imperial Supérieure. Everyone knows what that means.
Eleanor raises an eyebrow, surprised by my interruption. I’m only proud of myself for kind of standing my ground against her. That’s not usually my style. I’m the girl that ends up doing the whole group project instead of asking everyone to do their part.
“We are going together,” I tell her with more confidence, but it’s a thin layer.
Eleanor is quiet for a long moment. Then she laughs, actually laughs! It’s low and genuinely amused. “Oh, my dear. You really are precious. Do you think you’re the first girl to believe his story? All of this will mean nothing in a few months.”
My stomach drops. “No.” I shake my head adamantly. I know how he touched me. That was real, but what the hell do I know? This is all new to me.
“My son is passionate. Intense. He throws himself into things completely—and then he burns out. I’ve seen it a dozen times.
” That’s kind of what Caldwell told me about his brother.
This isn’t adding up. She reaches out, patting my hand like I’m a child.
I jerk back from her. “Cordelia understands this. She gives him space to... explore. Get these phases out of his system. Then he comes back to where he belongs.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m his mother.” Her voice hardens. “I know him better than anyone.”
I want to scream at her. I want to tell her she’s wrong, that Caldwell is different with me, that what we have is real. But the seed of doubt is already planted, and I can’t stop it from blooming.
“Come to the wedding tonight,” Eleanor says, her nice mask sliding back into place. “Wear something pretty. Enjoy the champagne. But don’t make a fool of yourself. You’re a distraction, my dear. Nothing more.”
With that, she turns and walks away. I stand there shell-shocked. Wow, she’s a bitch.
I pull out my phone and stare at Caldwell’s name in my contacts. I want to call him, but I can’t get myself to do it. Maybe his mom’s right because what she said cut through me.
I stand there in the garden until my phone buzzes. A text from Caldwell:
Where are you? I miss you. Come back to the room.
I stare at the words until they blur.
But his own mother’s voice echoes in my head: You’re a distraction, my dear. Nothing more.
I send him a quick response knowing I can’t face him right now: Be there soon.
Then before I can stop myself, I send another: Who is Cordelia to you, really? The honest truth!
My stomach tightens when the three dots appear immediately. He’s typing. Why do I feel like I’m sweaty all over?
Caldwell: Can we talk about this in person?
Not the answer I wanted. Not a denial. Not She’s no one, I told you.
Just a Can we talk about this in person? We all know needing to talk is never good news.
I start walking back toward the hotel through the garden. It’s beautiful, controlled, and perfect.
And I suddenly feel like I’m suffocating in all that perfection.