“What exactly do you think I am, Mrs. Harrington?”
Miriam’s smile was small. Icy.
“A distraction. A phase. Something he’ll move on from.”
Arden leaned in slightly. Her voice was calm. Razor-clean.
“Let me guess—you’d prefer someone more… suitable?”
Evelyn tapped her fingers once against the table. Sharp. Deliberate.
“Let me be clear,Miss Rivers. Gideon is expected to marry well. To carry on the Blackwell name with someone who understands legacy. That woman—” she tilted her head, gaze sliding over Arden like a dissection, “—is not you.”
She paused.
And then the twist of the blade, spoken so casually it almost passed as observation:
“Not exactly the elegant, willowy type, are you?”
The insult landed. Right where she meant it to.
Miriam’s smirk confirmed it.
But Arden didn’t break.
She never wanted to be one of them.
The words cut clean. But they didn’t wound.
Instead, she smiled. Slow. Cutting.
“Not exactlyyourtype, either, is it?” Her voice was silk-wrapped steel. “Funny—I was thinking the same about you.”
She didn’t blink. Didn’t back down.
“You’ve got the diamonds. But none of that means a thing if you can’t stand to be in your own skin.”
Her chin lifted, casual. Controlled.
“And I can. I am.”
She didn’t raise her voice.
Didn’t need to.
“Gideon didn’t choose me because I’m willowy or elegant or bred to play a role. Because here’s the truth.
He chose me because I don’t pretend. And I don’t need to.”
Her gaze slid briefly to Miriam. Then landed back on Evelyn with quiet finality.
“I know exactly who I am.”
The game changed. The air tightened.
Evelyn’s lips thinned. Miriam shifted, fingers curling once against the leather.
Arden tilted her head, cool and collected.
