Chapter 290

“She can. She’s claiming you’re unstable — a danger to yourself. It’s dirty and underhanded, but a family court judge might grant it simply to be cautious.”

Hilliard walked over and set a box on the bed.

“We need to show up. Smile. Prove we are a stable, happy family. Just for one night.”

Cailin looked at the box. Then at him.

“You want me to act?”

“I want you to protect Elia.”

She walked to the bed and opened the box. Inside lay a silver gown that looked like liquid moonlight.

“Fine,” she said. “But this is a negotiation. I want your word that I will have unrestricted access to Elia from now on — no more timed visits, no more guards dragging me away. I stay with her when she needs me.”

Hilliard looked at her for a moment, caught off guard. The demand wasn’t about money or freedom. It was only ever about her daughter.

“You have it.”

“Good,” Cailin said, her voice cold as glass. “Then I’ll play the part of your wife.”

Two hours later, Cailin stood before the mirror. The dress fit like a second skin. She looked dangerous — beautiful and sharp in equal measure.

Hilliard stood behind her, adjusting his tie. His eyes found hers in the reflection.

“You look—”

“Don’t,” Cailin cut him off. “Let’s go.”

The car ride was silent.

When they pulled up to the Pierre Hotel, the paparazzi swarm was blinding. As they made their way through the lobby toward the ballroom, a distinct, sharp scent drifted past — clove cigarettes, a smell she associated with only one person. She turned, but saw only a sea of anonymous tuxedos.

“Take my arm,” Hilliard said.

Cailin drew a breath, fixed a dazzling smile onto her face, and looped her arm through his.

They walked in.

The ballroom was opulent and crowded, and as they entered, a hush fell over the room.

Everyone was looking at the stage.

On the massive screen behind the podium, a slideshow was playing.

It was not photos of Preston.

It was photos of Hilliard and Charla — teenagers, then young adults, smiling, holding hands, sun-lit and golden. The text beneath the images read: A Love Destined to Be.

Cailin stopped walking. The smile froze on her face.

“Is this part of the deal?” she whispered, her voice vibrating with a rage she was barely containing.

Hilliard stared at the screen. The color drained from his face, then flooded back — dark red.

“No,” he said.

The slideshow clicked to the next image: Hilliard and Charla at a ski resort, looking like the perfect couple.

Whispers rippled through the crowd. Eyes darted to Cailin — the unwanted wife in the silver dress.

Hilliard moved to pull away, to storm the stage, but Cailin drove her nails into his arm.

“Don’t you dare leave me standing here alone,” she hissed.

Jeraldine stepped up to the microphone.

“Welcome, everyone. Tonight is a double celebration. We honor Preston, but we also celebrate a reunion. Please welcome… Charla English!”

The spotlight swung to the side entrance.

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