Chapter three
Crystal light cascaded down from the chandeliers like liquid diamonds, scattering across marble floors polished to a mirror sheen. Champagne glasses clinked in delicate rhythm with the low hum of a quartet in the corner, their strings swelling into the air as the city's elite mingled in clusters of glitter and tailored suits.
Servers glided between the guests with silver trays balanced effortlessly, the air perfumed with the faint bite of expensive cologne and perfume layered over old money confidence.
Victor Cross stood at the center of it all, the axis of the room. Tall, immaculately suited, silver-gray hair slicked to perfection, his presence demanded attention. A circle of powerful men leaned toward him, listening intently as he finished a calculated remark, a slight smile tugging his sharp jawline. Laughter erupted politely, reverent almost, before the men excused themselves to circulate.
Victor's hazel eyes, sharp and assessing, shifted without a word. Beside him, Celeste Marigny beamed with the poise of a practiced doll, platinum hair glistening under the chandelier glow. The cameras loved her face, and she knew it — every curve of her smile rehearsed, every tilt of her chin perfect for the flashes.
But Victor didn't look at her the way the cameras did. His gaze was colder, cutting, utilitarian. He leaned closer, voice dropping just beneath the swell of the music.
"Where is he?"
The question wasn't affectionate. It was an order.
Celeste's lashes fluttered, the practiced smile still frozen on her lips, but her eyes darted away. She knew exactly who he meant.
Victor's gaze sharpened, like a blade glinting in the dark. "Go. Find Sebastian."
Her smile widened on cue, fooling everyone except the man before her. "Of course, Mr. Cross."
She smoothed the glittering fabric of her gown and turned, heels clicking softly against marble as she slipped into the sea of guests, her eyes scanning the luxury for a flash of icy blonde hair.
The crowd sparkled, but beneath the shine, the tension was beginning to coil.
The bathroom gleamed like a showroom — black marble sinks stretched along one wall, the faucets gold and gleaming under the muted glow of recessed lights. Everything smelled faintly of eucalyptus and polish, not a trace of human mess allowed in.
But Sebastian was chaos pressed against that mirror.
His palms braced the counter, knuckles white. The icy blonde strands of his hair fell forward as his head lowered, chest heaving. His reflection glared back at him — feline eyes burning, lips curled into a bitter smirk that didn't feel like his own.
"Irresponsible son…" he spat at the mirror, the words tasting like venom. His jaw flexed as he slammed a fist once against the marble, the sharp crack echoing through the otherwise perfect silence. "Fuck them. They don't know shit. None of them."
The anger sizzled in his veins, hot and restless.
Then—heels.
Sharp, deliberate, echoing off the marble tiles beyond the stalls. Each step ticked closer, too familiar. Sebastian shut his eyes, dragging a hand through his tousled hair. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath.
The door creaked open.
And there she was. Celeste Marigny.
A sweep of glittering fabric followed her as she glided in, platinum hair cascading down her shoulders like a blade. She paused just inside, her brown eyes flicking over him before she let out a long, exaggerated sigh.
"Of course, you'd run off in the middle of everything." Her voice was equal parts sugar and steel.
The click of the lock snapped into place behind her.
Sebastian tilted his head just enough to glance at her reflection in the mirror. His lips twitched into a dangerous half-smirk, though his eyes stayed razor sharp.
"Did Daddy send you to babysit me, or are you just bored of playing doll out there?"
Celeste's heels clicked softly against the marble as she stepped closer, her reflection lining up beside Sebastian's in the mirror. She smoothed her gown with a practiced flick of her fingers, chin lifting with that poise she wore like armor.
"At least," she murmured, her voice laced with irritation under its velvet surface, "treat me like a lady, Sebastian. You don't get to talk to me however you please. I'm trying to make this work."
Her perfume — expensive, floral, faintly sweet — filled the space between them as she reached out, arms gliding to circle his waist from behind.
But before her hands could settle, Sebastian's body stiffened. He straightened sharply, rolling his shoulders back, and stepped out of her grasp as though her touch burned. His reflection turned to meet hers, hazel eyes cold and unflinching.
"Cut the act," he said flatly, his tone low, each word edged like glass. "When it's just us, we can drop the clout, the show, the perfect couple bullshit. Don't waste your energy."
Her painted lips parted in protest, but he didn't wait for an answer. He pushed past her, his broad frame brushing her shoulder with a deliberate chill, and shoved the bathroom door open.
The sound of it slamming echoed through the marble chamber.
Celeste stood frozen for a beat, fists curling at her sides. Then she let out a frustrated groan, stomping one heel against the floor before spinning in a dramatic little circle, hands flaring out like a dancer. "Ugh!"
Her platinum hair whipped around her as she exhaled, pulling herself together with a sharp flick of her fingers. The mask slid back over her face — lips curving into that flawless, camera-ready smile once again.
And with one final toss of her hair, she unlocked the door and strutted out, heels clicking like a countdown.
The gala hall shimmered with champagne light. Chandeliers spilled gold over velvet gowns and tuxedos. Amara stood tall among a circle of elegant white women, her burgundy curls catching the glow like fire. She was in her rhythm, hands gesturing lightly as she spoke about her boutique, her voice laced with confidence. The women nodded with interest, leaning closer, their jeweled fingers already pulling out phones, exchanging numbers with her. For a moment, Amara felt it — she belonged.
Then the sharp click of stilettos cut through the air.
Celeste Marigny.
Her platinum hair gleamed like spun glass, her gown hugging her frame with ruthless precision. She walked as if the floor itself bent for her heels, lips curved into a smile that didn't touch her eyes.
She stopped directly in front of Amara, forcing the circle of women to shift. Celeste's gaze swept over her — slow, deliberate, dismissive.
"And who," she drawled, voice dripping with honeyed venom, "are you?"
The women glanced at one another, awkwardly silent. Amara opened her mouth, steady but polite.
"I'm Amara Lewis. I own—"
Celeste cut her off with a sharp flick of her manicured hand. "No, no, no. That's not what I meant." She leaned closer, voice lowering with razor edges. "How did you even get in here?"
The words hung heavy, sharp as glass. The women shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting anywhere but at Amara.
Amara straightened her shoulders, her smile faltering but still present. "I was invited, actually. I run a boutique—"
"Oh, please," Celeste scoffed, rolling her eyes. Her tone turned syrupy as she spun toward the security posted nearby. "Gentlemen?" she called sweetly, "this doesn't belong here." She pointed to Amara like she was pointing at spilled wine. "Take this… trash out."
The guards hesitated, but Celeste's glare cut through hesitation like steel. They moved.
"Wait—" Amara protested, stepping back, clutching the folded slip of paper where the women's numbers were written. "You can't—"
But rough hands caught her arms, pulling her away from the circle she had fought so hard to step into. The women who had smiled at her just moments ago watched silently, faces frozen in polite indifference.
Celeste turned to them, her lips twisting into a sweet, practiced smile.
"I'm so sorry for the disturbance. Hope it didn't ruin your evening."
One of the women gave a tight smile. "No offense taken."
And just like that, Amara was erased.
Dragged toward the doors, her heels scraping the polished floor, she clutched that slip of paper to her chest, knuckles white. Her lifeline. Her proof she had belonged, if only for a moment.
Celeste turned back to the hall as if nothing had happened, her gown sweeping behind her like a victorious flag.
The grand ballroom had begun to empty, its golden chandeliers dimming with the soft murmur of goodbyes. The guest speaker's voice carried over the fading clatter of champagne flutes:
"Maison de la Croix thanks you all for your presence tonight. May this be the beginning of enduring partnerships. Until we meet again…"
Polite applause followed, though most were already drifting toward the exit.
Outside, the night was alive with chaos—paparazzi shouting, flashbulbs exploding like fireworks, the hiss of engines from sleek black sedans and purring sports cars. Celebrities struck their practiced poses one last time, smiles flashing as velvet ropes parted for them. The Cross family emerged in a measured formation: Victor sharp and commanding, Celeste glowing for the cameras, Sebastian brooding but magnetic. Their limousine door opened, cameras screamed their names, and in moments they were gone, swallowed by the storm of light and noise.
At the far edge of the hall, where no one bothered to look, Amara sat curled into herself on a small velvet chair. Her fur wrap hugged her shoulders, her posture dignified even as her heart threatened to split. Her lipstick was perfect, her lashes flawless, but the fight to keep her expression composed left her jaw aching.
The folded paper with the new contacts—her one trophy from tonight—was clutched in her palm like a lifeline. She stared at it, repeating silently: It wasn't for nothing. It wasn't for nothing.
Her throat burned, but no tears fell. Not here. Not in this place that had already spat her out once tonight.
Slowly, Amara rose. The gala's laughter and glitter blurred behind her, fading into the night's chill. Her heels clicked against the marble, sharp and lonely, as she stepped past the last clusters of guests waiting for their chauffeurs. No limo waited for her. No cameras turned.
She pulled out her phone. The screen glowed against her face as her thumb hovered. She exhaled sharply, steadying herself, and finally pressed the name.
"Kairen," she whispered into the dark, her voice a fragile thread as she started walking down the street.