Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Ivy
I look up in awe at the Bexleys’ country estate.
Three storeys of honey-colored stone, set against the deep green of the Surrey fields.
Through the trees, I glimpse a maze, hedges trimmed with surgical precision, mist rising over the horizon with the aftermath of the rain, and beyond it, the long dark line of the stables.
I sweep the hair from my face as the wind howls, the threat of more rain looming.
Maria’s already halfway up the steps, tablet in hand, issuing quiet instructions.
Dane is not far behind, expression carved from ice, every trace of the man from the sauna only two hours ago scrubbed clean.
“Remember, no one here is your friend,” Dane says, voice low and stern.
“Tell them everything, but nothing. How much you love their fucking forty-thousand-dollar wine. How Felicity Bexley’s dress is divine.
Let them believe they’re in control. Laugh at their lame jokes, smile for the fucking cameras, and we get the hell out of here. ”
“Are you always this fun at parties?” I deadpan as a frigging butler, no less, opens the door, affecting a small bow like we’ve transported into a period drama.
“And stay the hell away from Hugo Bexley,” Dane mutters under his breath as a ruddy-faced woman swathed in fur and pearls sweeps down the grand staircase like she’s been rehearsing the moment all afternoon.
“Who’s Hugo Bexley?” I whisper back.
“A real piece of shit,” he murmurs without breaking stride, his mouth already curving into a dazzling smile. “Felicity!”
“Dane, how wonderful of you to come,” she booms, arms outstretched. “And don’t tell me this lovely creature is yours?”
I assume she’s talking about Maria, who’s resplendent in green velvet, wearing a matching smile to Dane—one that doesn’t touch their eyes. But then Felicity turns to me, eyes wide and appraising, and I’m not sure how I feel about being described as a lovely creature.
“Yes,” Dane says, a faint smile ghosting over his mouth. “She’s mine—but not in the way you think. She’s my assistant.”
Something in his voice makes me wince. Mine burns for half a second, then the rest of the sentence snuffs it out.
Whatever I thought I saw in him earlier—the man who waded into the pool after me—is gone.
In his place stands the Dane everyone else knows: calculated, impenetrable, walls so high it would take a lifetime to scale them.
“Oh!” Felicity’s smile widens. “Pretty one, isn’t she? I bet a lovely young thing like you has a boyfriend waiting at home?”
Hell, of all the things I thought I’d have to talk about tonight, my relationship status wasn’t on my bingo card.
I pause too long, and I feel Dane stiffen beside me.
“I’m kind of busy,” I manage, forcing out a laugh.
Felicity chuckles. “How sensible. Well, come in, come in! Please have a drink.”
She clicks her fingers, and a server appears as if conjured, balancing a tray of champagne flutes.
We follow her into the drawing room—a grand space with towering windows dressed in velvet drapes. A fire crackles in a traditional stone hearth, throwing a golden wash over oil portraits that glare down from the walls.
Around us, politicians, financiers, and media moguls circle like well-fed hawks, trading favors and pretending to laugh.
Maria is already gliding towards them, her smile switching gears effortlessly as she begins what looks like a round of charm warfare.
“Dane, darling, you must meet my daughter, Isabel,” Felicity says, beaming, gesturing towards a young, blonde woman dressed in something silver that clings in all the right places.
Now it makes sense why she asked if I was his; she was checking whether he is available.
Dane greets her with the effortless charm he slips into so easily, planting a light kiss on her cheek.
Isabel blushes, her eyes lighting up like her mother just delivered her the coveted toy at the top of her Santa list. She glows under his attention, all bright eyes and soft laughter.
I fidget in my black satin skirt that flares over my hips, smoothing it down, suddenly self-conscious.
I paired it with a long-sleeved lace bodice from Sloane’s elegant wardrobe that scoops low at the back.
It’s sexy but understated, although the price tag is not even close to the outfits on display tonight.
At least my Chanel red lipstick is expensive; no one needs to know it was a free sample.
I take a swig of champagne, nearly choking as a tall, blond man with bloodshot eyes and reeking of whiskey sidles up beside me, a little too close.
“You’re...” He squints, pointing. “I know you.”
My pulse skips. “I don’t think so,” I say a fraction too fast. “I’m Sloane.”
He tilts his head, studying me as if he’s piecing something together.
“Really?” His mouth curls. “Thought we’d met before.”
My laugh comes out thin. “Pretty sure I’d remember.”
For a second—one long, awful second—I think he’s going to say Ivy. My stomach twists tight.
Then the grin returns, sleazy and satisfied. “Guess not. You’d be hard to forget.”
Before I can step away, Felicity’s voice cuts through the hum of chatter, her tone full of charm with a faint tremor underneath.
“You’ve all met my son, Hugo?” she says, a brittle smile pinning him in place.
Hugo barely spares her a glance. “Sloane. Pretty name. Hey, did we match on Tinder?” His gaze drags over me like oil, leaving my skin crawling.
Jesus Christ, what is it with this family and my dating status?
I’m so on edge, convinced that by some million-to-one chance Hugo’s about to recognize me; it’s almost a relief when Isabel loops her arm through Dane’s and steers him toward the bar, giggling something about another drink.
Dane glances back as he goes, a flicker of warning in his eyes before the mask snaps back into place.
Beside me, Hugo smirks. “So, Sloane. What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
He leans in close, fingers grazing my arm, the touch deliberate, testing. I step back, but that only makes him grin wider.
“Hugo,” a voice interjects, calm but edged with steel. “Father’s looking for you. He wants to have a drink with you.”
“I’ve already got one.”
“Well, get another; better not to keep the man who holds the purse strings waiting.”
Hugo rolls his eyes, muttering something about “everyone being so uptight,” but Dominic’s presence is enough to make him retreat.
“Hey, Dominic,” I say, a genuine smile finding my face at last. “We meet again. I was hoping to see you. Where have you been hiding?”
Dominic turns to me with an apologetic smile. “Babysitting my older brother, it seems. Or damage limitation.” He swipes two champagnes from a passing server’s tray, handing another to me.
“So, how have you been enjoying London?”
“Enjoying not so much, working mostly.”
“Ah.” He sniffs, glancing toward Dane. “Your boss keeping you that busy?” His tone turns wry as he watches Isabel lean closer to whisper something in Dane’s ear. “My sister seems to be keeping him occupied.”
I’ve been trying to avoid gawking, but I follow his gaze. Dane is surrounded by a small group of Bexley board members holding court, looking every bit the ruthless CEO. Isabel’s hand brushes his arm. He doesn’t move away.
The champagne suddenly tastes flat. I down it in one swallow.
Dominic shakes his head. “I’d hoped my sister wouldn’t join the long queue of women who fall at his feet,” he says, exhaling a faint sigh. “You’ve never been tempted?”
“Me?” I laugh like it’s absurd. “Not a chance.”
God, I’m such a pathetic liar.
A deep gong reverberates through the hall—yes, an actual gong—saving me from having to tell another lie. The Bexley way of announcing dinner.
Dominic leads me through to the grand dining hall, pulling out a chair for me, ever the perfect gentleman.
I end up sandwiched between Maria and Dominic Bexley. Dane sits at the far end of the table at Isabel’s side, his attention fixed in polite focus. She touches him at every opportunity, laughing at everything he says. I stab my fork into the foie gras as if it had insulted me personally.
He plays along enough to keep Felicity pleased, but I see it—the small, unconscious things. The way his gaze drifts to me when he thinks I’m not looking. The muscle in his jaw tightening when Dominic pours me more wine.
I’m in the middle of trying to pry a garlic-soaked snail out of its shell, debating whether I can discreetly flick it under the table, when Maria leans in, perfume floral and sweet, her voice smooth as velvet.
“You’re very quiet,” she says, tilting her head in polite curiosity. “It must be strange, stepping into a world you don’t quite belong to.”
Ouch.
My grip on the fork tightens. “I manage.”
Her lips curl, faint amusement ghosting over them. “Oh, I’m sure you do. Working for Dane must help. He has a way about him that makes people feel seen. Important.” The word important lingers, heavy with implication.
“I just do my job,” I say, imagining the snail now on my fork catapulting into her wine glass.
“Of course.” She sets her wine glass down, eyes flicking down to where Dane sits, attention caught by something Isabel’s saying. “He was always so devoted. To her, I mean. His fiancée. They were utterly in love. Everyone thought they were perfect together.”
There’s something deliberate in the way she says it, like she’s laying a boundary carved in silk.
My throat tightens. “That must’ve been hard.”
“Tragic,” Maria agrees. “Some loves never fade. They leave a mark no one else can quite reach.” Her smile is soft, her tone gracious as she raises her glass—but the warning lingers beneath it, as clear as crystal.
The words slide cold and heavy in my chest. Of course.
Beautiful Isabel, glowing under his gaze, fits perfectly into his world.
And me? I’m just an imposter in borrowed clothes.