“You’re slipping,” he says patronizingly. “Be careful, or your little brother will be the one making the big moves.”
I don’t look at Lucy.
I don’t check where she is when Theo releases her.
I don’t track the moment she steps away from the dance floor, breathless and flushed, and drifts toward the edge of the room.
Because my father is sitting at my table.
Because he’s brought a weapon.
Because he’s daring me to choose between optics and control.
I stand.
The room reacts immediately.
I offer the folder woman my hand, not because I want her, not because I’m interested, but because I understand the rules of the battlefield my father just dragged me onto.
“Fine,” I say. “One dance.”
Her smile returns, triumphant.
Richard’s eyes gleam, satisfied.
Elaine’s expression shifts, a flash of sadness behind her composure.
As I lead the woman toward the dance floor, I hear Theo’s laughter, then he says something lower to her.
I don’t catch it.
I’m already moving.
Already playing the part.
Because my father is finally smiling.
And I’m too busy making sure he doesn’t mistake that smile for victory.
Chapter 20 - Lucy
Dinner is the kind of beautiful that makes me uneasy.
Not because I don’t like nice things... I do, in the same way I like clean sheets and quiet mornings and grocery stores that aren’t a math problem. But this kind of beauty doesn’t feel designed for comfort. It feels designed to make you aware of what you are and aren’t.
The ballroom is all low light and polished surfaces, gold glinting in places that don’t need it. Crystal chandeliers hang overhead like the room is draped in jewelry. Every table is dressed like a promise: linen so white it looks untouched by real life, centrepieces that smell faintly of something expensive and sweet, place settings that look like some poor person used a ruler to make sure everything was perfect.
My champagne flute is real crystal. I can tell because it’s cold in a different way, because when my fingers slide around the stem, it feels almost too smooth, too perfect. The glass catches the candlelight and throws it back in little pricks of brightness. I find myself turning it slightly, watching the light move, because my hands need something to do.
Breathe, Lucy.
Be normal.
Be good.
Julian sits beside me, close enough that I can feel heat from him when I shift. We aren't touching, not quite, but there seems to be this quiet gravity that makes me want to lean in his direction. He’s in a black tux, perfectly composed, and he doesn’t look like he’s “attending” a gala. He looks like he’s part of the structure holding it up.
I’m painfully aware of the open back of my dress. The air brushes my spine every time I move, and the sensation makes me feel more exposed than I'm used to. I keep expecting the dress to feel like a costume, like something I’ll itch to rip off the minute I get home, but it doesn’t. It fits as if it were designed around me.
