Chapter 59

Chapter 59:

The second Rhys and Catherine vanished from Yvaine’s party, the vibe bounced right back as if they’d never existed.

Yvaine was in her element, gliding from group to group like she’d grown up on a champagne tray.

She laughed too loudly, hugged too many people, and somehow remembered everyone’s dog’s name.

It was her birthday, after all, so every time someone raised a glass, she drank like it was her duty.

I kept an eye on her between sips of my own watered-down cocktail.

Meanwhile, Cassian had parked himself beside me with a drink he didn’t touch and a smile that was trying a little too hard.

He asked where I was from, what I did, whether I preferred Cosmopolitan or Old Fashioned—but he wasn’t fooling anyone.

He knew, and he was dying to get the story behind why his good friend Ashton had suddenly decided to wife me up.

I played dumb, smiled sweetly, and answered every question without telling him a thing.

When the party finally broke up, Yvaine found me, clung to my arm, and slurred, “I’m taking you home, babe. Come on. My car’s… somewhere p>

I rolled my eyes. “Yvie, I’ve had, like, three drinks. You can barely spell your own name right now p>

Cassian peeled her off me. “I’ll take you p>

“Thanks, but don’t worry about me. It’s late, and I’m not even on your way. I’ll just grab a cab p>

He hesitated. “Ash asked me to p>

“It’s fine.” I smiled. “I can take care of myself p>

“You sure p>

𝖁𝗂𝖊𝗐 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾: g𝗮𝗅𝗇𝗈ν𝖊𝗅𝘀⫽ⅽ𝗈𝗆

“Positive. Good night, Yvie. Goodbye, Cassian p>

I ordered a ride and headed back to Oakwood.

There used to be just two guards at the front gate.

Now there were five.

All burly, all alert, and all apparently recognizing me by the head tilt they gave me as I passed.

Ashton had hired them after Rhys barged his way into the building last time.

Even though he was off on some last-minute business trip, he still made sure Cassian was keeping an eye on me at Yvaine’s party.

He still had security beefed up at the building.

He never said a word about it, though. Just did it.

I hadn’t drunk much, but by the time I got upstairs, the night hit me all at once.

I stripped, showered, and flopped straight into bed without setting an alarm.

It was the weekend, after all.

I woke up to the sun roasting my face and my phone shrieking like a banshee. Squinting, I fumbled around until I saw the name on the screen: Savannah Lane.

That sobered me up real fast.

Savannah never called me on weekends, not unless the building was on fire.

I swiped to answer. “Savannah p>

“Mirabelle Vance! Where the hell are you?! I’ve called you three times. Don’t tell me you’re still in bed.” I glanced at the screen. Two missed calls.

Shit.

“I mean… technically, yes. It’s Saturday, so p>

“It’s bloody Sunday!” she shrieked. “And in case your beauty sleep turned you into a goldfish, today is the day Eliza Black comes in to review the new jewelry pitch. You’re at home? In your pajamas p>

I shot up so fast I nearly dislocated something.

My phone screen helpfully reminded me: Sunday, 10:42 a.m.

“I thought she was coming tomorrow, Monday p>

“I told you they changed the date. Last week. She’s a global A-lister, Mira, and she p>

“More like B-lister,” I mumbled.

“Shut up and listen! She cleared her schedule for Nyx Collective. She’s here right now! You think she’s going to wait around because you needed an extra lie-in p>

“NO—I mean yes—I didn’t get the update, I swear p>

“Save it.” Her voice cut clean through my panic. “You want this project? You want your name on Eliza Black’s red carpet looks? Then get your arse in here now. You’re the best designer I’ve got. Don’t blow this because you slept through a calendar change p>

Click. She was gone.

I sat there, stunned for about five seconds, then scrambled out of bed, tripped into my slippers, and raced to the bathroom. I hadn’t seen any reschedule. No email. No message. Nothing. I’d sworn it was set for Monday.

Someone had screwed with me.

No way that update just magically skipped me.

Someone—cough Violet bloody Lin, cough—had made sure I was left out of the loop.

But I didn’t have time to sit around cursing her name and plotting her slow demise.

I’d pulled three all-nighters for that pitch.

Blood, sweat, and not nearly enough coffee went into that deck.

Missing this meeting wasn’t an option, not unless I wanted to kiss my shot at real industry cred goodbye.

By the time I barreled into Nyx Collective, it was past eleven.

Every designer had already shown their proposals.

Eliza Black’s agent was halfway out the door, throwing Savannah a 100k that said, “Wrap it up or I’m walking p>

Savannah had begged. Negotiated. Maybe offered up her soul.

Eventually, the agent had relented.

Ten minutes, no more.

I made it into the conference room on the final minute of that countdown. I was a mess—sweaty from sprinting up five flights of stairs, hair wild like I’d just crawled out of a wind tunnel.

My blouse was sticking to my back, and I couldn’t feel my left leg.

Eliza Black was perched at the front of the room in head-to-toe black, a designer mask covering most of her face. Just her eyes were showing, sharp and watchful.

She looked exactly like she did on screen.

Only now, she wasn’t smiling.

Gone was the grinning, bubbly pop princess.

This Eliza was ice.

Still, silent, judgmental.

And probably five seconds away from standing up and walking the hell out.