Chapter 21

Chapter 21:

The Laurent family estate sat alone on top of a private hill, as if it thought it was too good to share real estate with the rest of us. The only way up was a winding mountain road that made my stomach do backflips.

Lately, all anyone in Skyline could talk about was the elusive Laurent heir—as if he were the second coming of Gatsby, but with better hair. I’d heard his name so many times it started to feel like subliminal messaging. At this point, I had to see what all the fuss was about.

Traffic on the way up was a nightmare—Skyline’s elite crawling up the mountain like glittery ants in black-tinted SUVs. We weren’t even at the top when Yvaine told the driver to pull over.

She got out first. I followed, tugging my dress down an inch—not that it helped. Technically, I should have arrived with Ashton to sell the whole engagement thing. But he’d texted to say he’d be running late.

Yvaine hooked her arm through mine as we walked up the rest of the way on foot.

The dress she picked for me was… bold. A silver slip covered in enough rhinestone fringe to double as a disco ball. Definitely not my usual style, but tonight wasn’t about subtlety. The thing clung to me like a second skin, sparkling even in the patchy mountain moonlight.

And the slit? Let’s just say one wrong move and I’d be charged with public indecency. I’d paired it with silver stilettos that made my calves look deadly and my ankles sharp enough to cut glass.

With my hair pinned up and a pearl clip at the back, I almost passed for classy. Almost.

By the time we reached the Laurent gates, I was trying not to stare but—bloody hell. Even the door was smug. A giant wrought-iron monstrosity with gold accents and enough marble to pave a Greek tragedy.

Now, the Carlisles weren’t exactly paupers. Yvaine’s family practically ran Skyline’s social scene, and her brother had been expanding the family empire as if Monopoly were a blood sport. Still, even she raised an eyebrow at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

“Is that… a fountain inside the gate?” she whistled.

C𝓱𝓮𝓬𝓴 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓇𝓈 𝓪𝓽

I nodded. “With flamingos. Real ones p>

We’d barely stepped into the ballroom when the crowd turned.

Heads swiveled. Mouths parted. Champagne flutes paused mid-air.

Yvaine made quite the entrance. She wore a strapless red dress that hugged her like it had stock in her waistline, and I figured I didn’t look too shabby, either.

I scanned the room for Ashton. No sign of him. Just a sea of manicured women and Botoxed men pretending they weren’t checking each other’s net worth. I wondered which ones were Ashton’s family.

He’d apparently decided this circus of a party was the perfect setting for me to meet his parents for the first time—public enough so they wouldn’t throw drinks or start interrogating me in full CIA mode. Crowded enough that any “nice to meet you” would be short, polite, and over before I had a chance to trip over someone’s surname.

While Yvaine and I were busy scanning the crowd, the crowd was busy scanning us.

Women looked like they were either about to compliment us or commit a hate crime. Men stared like they were seeing cleavage for the first time.

“That’s Yvaine Carlisle—Carlisle family heiress,” someone whispered behind me.

“But the one next to her? Who is that p>

“Mirabelle Vance,” someone else chimed in, sounding way too smug about it. “She’s marrying Rhys Granger. Wedding’s coming up soon. No wonder she’s glowing p>

“Pfft, glowing my arse. Everyone knows she’s just clinging to Rhys. He doesn’t even like her. Got someone else on the side, apparently p>

“Please. Mirabelle Vance is a nobody. Even her own family doesn’t back her. She’s just some barista, right? Latching onto Rhys is the only thing she’s got going for her p>

The ladies were whispering like we didn’t have ears. Low voices, but not low enough. Every word floated straight over to us like smoke from a bad barbecue. Yvaine’s eyes snapped up. She took one look at the group and started striding over as if she was about to stage a very well-dressed homicide.

“Yvie,” I grabbed her wrist. “Not here. It’s the Laurents’ party. If you deck someone in this ballroom, we’ll be blacklisted from every gala till we’re sixty p>

She huffed. “They’re the ones running their mouths. If this bloody dress weren’t so tight, I’d be over there turning cheeks into handprints p>

Relatable.

But I wasn’t mad. Not really. Their gossip was so off-script it wasn’t even offensive—it was just outdated. The real social sharks would already know Rhys and I were done.

Although… Rhys probably hadn’t told anyone. Definitely not Louisa. And definitely not the family friends who’d rat him out to her.

Because if there was one thing Rhys Granger couldn’t stand, it was the idea that I walked away first.

“Are you just going to let them get away with it?” Yvaine seethed.

“Nope p>

I used to swallow that crap. Every side-eye, every whisper, every woman who told me I’d never be enough for him. I swallowed it because I thought Rhys was worth it.

Newsflash: he wasn’t.

So I picked up a glass of juice from the drinks table—cranberry, pretty and dangerous-looking—and strolled over to the cackling hens.

The one who’d been talking the most stood dead center, buried in a lavender tulle monstrosity. Pearls everywhere. Big ones. Like she’d raided her grandma’s jewelry box.

As soon as they saw me, they went silent. Blinked. Smiled as if they hadn’t just been slandering me.

I smiled too, and held out the glass to Miss Lavender. “I would’ve offered you soap, but since I don’t carry that in my clutch, you’ll have to make do with cranberry juice p>

She didn’t take it. Just stared at the glass as if it was about to bite her.

I didn’t move. Just stood there, hand extended. Waiting.

Silence stretched.

A few people turned to watch.

I didn’t move a muscle.

Whatever was on my face must have told her that this wasn’t a bluff.

If she didn’t take the juice, I’d pour it over her blowout without blinking.