“Elara,” Mrs. Ashworth breathed, reaching for me as if I were the only sane person left in the room. “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve this.”
I gave her a polite, empty smile. “It’s fine.”
“It is not fine,” his father spat.
“She can come,” I said simply.
The entire room froze. I ignored the looks. I ignored the mistress’s trembling lip. I ignored Alastair, who was glaring at me—likely because I’d given in so easily, or perhaps because I had ignored his calls for the last forty-eight hours.
I felt nothing. I had long since run out of things to feel.
“If she wants to attend,” I continued, “let her attend. It makes no difference to me.”
Alastair cleared his throat, looking at his parents. “See? She doesn’t care. So just—stop blowing this out of proportion.”
His father turned on him. “You bring your mistress into my house and expect me to stay silent?”
“She’s carrying my child,” Alastair snapped. “That makes her important.”
“She became unimportant the moment you chose her over your vows,” his father shot back. He softened only slightly when he turned to me. “Elara, you don’t have to tolerate this. We can send her away.”
The mistress opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off.
“I’m not tolerating anything,” I said. “I’m attending a business function. That’s all.”
His mother gasped softly. “Elara, it’s more than just—”
“No,” I said gently.
Alastair tugged his mistress forward, brazenly. “We’re running late.”
I stepped aside, smoothing my dress and fighting back the sudden, sharp memory of Julian. He would never have put me in this position. He would have hated seeing me here.
I inhaled slowly, steadying my pulse. I needed to stop. Tonight, I needed to be Elara Ashworth. The wife I was raised to be. The daughter they groomed.
I was getting closer to the exit. I just had to get through this banquet.
Chapter 5
Elara
The ballroom was a sea of industry elite—retailers, investors, and, of course, the Esmé Group principals. The crowd buzzed with rumors, most centered around Esmé’s founder, Vivienne Hale. She was legendary for being ruthless—a woman who had spent decades carving a path through a male-dominated industry with a blade in her hand and a smile on her pretty face.
Word was, she had groomed her only son to take his place at her side. The next generation was officially taking over, and every shark in the room wanted to see if the son was as lethal as the mother.
“Smile, dear,” Alastair murmured, his voice tight. “Everybody’s watching.”
I executed a flawless smile, the kind that didn’t touch my eyes.
“You don’t need to tell me what to do.”
He stiffened, muttering something I was sure was a vicious insult under his breath. He hated when I asserted autonomy. I stepped out of his space, ignoring him, and scanned the room.
Across the ballroom, his parents flanked his mistress like guard dogs. They were trying to keep her hidden, to avoid questions.Mr. Ashworth blocked anyone who looked too curious, redirecting them with practiced ease.
Alastair suddenly wrapped an arm around my waist. I glanced up—event photographers were approaching. Of course. He was all for show.
A circle of retailers gathered, along with the camera crew, thrilled to be near the “Ashworth couple.” I’d managed to keep us looking like “couple goals,” even with him in Europe for three years.
