Chapter 9
Ella's POV
The moment Cole stepped aside, something twisted in my chest, small and sharp.
All night he had stood in front of me—shielding me from the Shaws' humiliation, from Zoey's hysterics, from every gaze that had come hunting for me. This one time, he pulled back.
The path to Blake, he opened it himself.
I didn't look at him again. Said nothing—say more, and I'd only give myself away. Quietly, I let go of the hem of his jacket where my fingers had been clutching.
Blake reached out to grab me. I spoke first, before his hand could touch me, my voice pitched soft and small, the careful, timid tone of a girl minding her manners in front of an elder.
"Blake, this is Uncle Cole—he served with my father in the military, years ago."
The word "uncle" came out light, but clear enough. Every whisper about what might be between us, every hint of something improper, I nailed it all down in that single sentence, fixed it firmly under "an elder looking after a younger one." No one could find fault with it.
Cole didn't contradict me. He only kept his eyes lowered, letting the relationship be sealed in front of the entire hall.
Crack.
The Shaw patriarch's palm landed on the back of Blake's head.
"Shut your mouth," he hissed, the tremor in his voice betraying him. "That is—" He leaned close to Blake's ear and rattled off the name, fast, as though holding it a second longer might burn his tongue. Halfway through he spun around, bowing and scraping toward Cole, the smile on his face worse than tears, beads of sweat sliding down past his temple. "Mr. Westmore, the boy doesn't know any better, he's been rude to you—please don't take it to heart—"
I watched Blake go still—frozen, as if doused with a bucket of ice water. His knuckles went white where he gripped the armrest, and the panic in his eyes was there for anyone to see.
His father was jabbing him from behind, forcing an apology out of him. Head bowed, he pushed out a single word. "Sorry."
Then, in the next breath, he wrenched me back to his side, hard enough to send a bolt of pain through my wrist.
He stared at Cole, and bit out each word like a declaration of war.
"Even if—even if you're Cole Westmore—it doesn't change one thing. Ella is my fiancée."
Those eyes swept over Cole with open hostility, searching for some flaw, some foothold that might let him come out on top.
But how could he possibly find one?
Cole wore no expression at all, and he didn't answer. In his eyes, Blake probably wasn't worth the breath it would take to reply.
Into the deadlock, the Shaw patriarch stepped forward with a smile smoothed over just right.
"Mr. Westmore, the truth is, there was another reason we asked you here tonight—there's something we'd like to place in your hands. In person."
My chest went tight.
Cole heard him, turned his head, and looked at me.
A glance so light it carried almost no weight, landing on my face and withdrawn at once.
Then he moved, following the patriarch down the corridor.
Not a word of comfort. Not a word of parting.
Blake gripped my wrist and dragged me out through the crowd, his palm damp, refusing to let go the whole way. I glanced back once—Cole's figure had already turned the far corner of the hall and vanished.
He shouldn't have left this early.
In the plan I'd laid out, tonight was supposed to be me drawing him, step by careful step, over to my side—not standing here watching someone else call him away.
The instant we cleared the crowd, Blake's face turned.
"What is wrong with you tonight?" He kept his voice low, but every word was an accusation. "Making the Shaws lose face in front of everyone—do you have any idea how humiliated I was? And that man—Uncle? Even if he is your uncle, standing that close to him—what do you think that looks like?"
I didn't answer.
My head was somewhere else entirely. What did that glance mean? Had he seen through something, or was it nothing but an idle look? Somewhere tonight, which step had I let slip?
The more I turned it over, the less the churning in me would settle. That cold in my chest sank, layer by layer.
Blake was still going, circling back to the same handful of lines—ungrateful, embarrassing me, do you even love me anymore.
I lifted my eyes.
"Blake." My voice came out cool, cutting clean across his. "That pile of liquor you ordered on the yacht—and the tab for those 'friends' of yours—who covered it for you?"
He stared at me in disbelief, then found his voice. "Ella... how could you say such a thing?"
I didn't spare him another glance. Bracing a hand on the edge of the table, I stood and walked away.
I'd performed enough. Tonight I had no appetite left for playing along.
At the door, Ryan was already waiting by the car. Seeing me come out, he gave a slight bow.
"Miss Hartford, Mr. Westmore has asked me to see you home."
My first instinct was to accept—getting into his car was the simplest, safest choice.
But before my foot crossed the threshold, the thought turned over.
Cole had grown suspicious tonight. To keep following each step he'd arranged for me now would be laying myself out flat beneath his gaze. The more he could anticipate me, the more danger I was in.
Let him not see me too clearly.
I shook my head, the corner of my mouth curving into something faint and worn.
"No, thank you. I'll just take a cab home."
I caught the flicker of surprise in Ryan's eyes. Good—exactly what I wanted.
But he didn't press. He only stepped back half a pace and made way for me.
Ryan's POV
By the time the car pulled out through the estate gates, the night had thickened past all light.
There'd been no sound from the back seat. A glance in the rearview mirror showed Mr. Westmore watching the window, streetlight sliding across his glasses, his expression impossible to read.
I hesitated a good while before I couldn't hold it back—I put in a word for Miss Hartford.
"Sir, Miss Hartford took quite a lot tonight. Slandered in front of everyone, then Mr. Shaw pointing at her nose and shouting like that. A girl on her own, walking home alone in the dark—it's a pitiful thing to watch.it's a pitiful thing to watch."
The car went quiet for a few seconds.
He didn't answer at once. His thumb ran across the knuckle of his forefinger, the habit that came over him when he was turning something over.
A long moment passed before he spoke, flat, without a rise anywhere in it.
"Do you really believe Zoey fell into that fountain by accident?"
I froze.
In the mirror, he was still looking out the window, the line of his profile drawn cold in the shifting dark. There wasn't a trace of warmth in those eyes.
