Chapter 7
Chloe's POV
The Sterling family's contempt for me ran deep, and I had always known it. As I stood there listening to their accusations — each one more absurd than the last — I felt the anger drain out of me, replaced by something quieter and more resolute. There was no point wasting another minute in that room. What I needed was to find Vincent and settle the matter of calling off the engagement, and once that was done, whatever these people thought of me would no longer be any of my concern.
I followed Vincent's footsteps to the study. I was about to knock when a sound stopped me — the soft, broken rhythm of someone crying, slipping through the gap in the door. Selina's voice, wet with tears: "Vincent, I really didn't mean any harm. But Chloe seems genuinely upset with me."
I heard the rustle of fabric, the suggestion of movement. "Maybe it's because you invited me as your companion tonight," she went on, her voice carrying a practiced helplessness. "She's jealous — she's your fiancée, after all. Chloe must be hurting right now. You should go back down to her. I'll be fine on my own once I've had a moment to calm down."
Vincent's response came low and unhurried, full of a tenderness I had never once heard him use with me. He told her she had done nothing wrong. He told her not to blame herself. And through the narrow gap in the door, I caught a glimpse of the way he was looking at her — a softness in his expression that I had never seen directed at anyone else.
Something dense and aching spread through my chest. My raised hand slowly lowered. I stood there for one more moment, then turned and walked away without a sound.
When I returned home, an invitation was waiting for me — a fashion salon, hosted by one of the most well-regarded names in the industry, with a guest list to match. Six years had passed since I last moved in those circles, and I had been searching, without quite admitting it to myself, for the right moment to step back in. This was it.
A few days later, I arrived exactly on time. Unlike the dinner at the Sterling estate, where I had dressed without particular thought, I took care with my appearance this time. A bold red gown, curls falling loose across my chest, and the jewelry I had designed myself — each piece chosen to complement the other. The effect, when I walked in, was immediate. Heads turned. Conversations paused.
"Who is she? I don't think I've seen her at one of these before."
"Anyone invited tonight has to be someone — but I can't place her either."
"She's stunning. And that necklace — does anyone know who designed it?"
The admiring murmurs were cut through by a single, sharp laugh. "Someone important? Hardly. She's just the fiancée the Sterlings have been keeping under wraps — not exactly their finest presentation." The voice carried across the room with no effort to lower itself. "She probably embarrassed herself at their dinner the other night and came here to salvage her pride. Dressed up like a peacock, and not a shred of real taste."
The mood in the room shifted. I could feel the recalibration in the glances that followed me. I let it pass over me without expression, lifted the corners of my mouth just slightly, and walked directly toward an elegant white-haired woman standing near the center of the room.
"Mrs. Vivian, good evening. My name is Chloe — I'm a designer, relatively new to the scene. I've admired your work for a long time, and I'm genuinely glad to have the chance to meet you."
Vivian was one of the old guard, gracious and unhurried in the way that only came with real standing. "Hello, Chloe," she said, and her gaze dropped to the necklace at my throat. "That's a beautiful piece. Did you design it yourself?"
I smiled and told her I had. Something shifted in her expression — a quiet, appraising warmth — and she began to talk with me in earnest. Her attention was not lost on the rest of the room. One by one, other guests drifted over to introduce themselves, the earlier undercurrent of skepticism dissolving almost without acknowledgment. The woman who had mocked me from across the room watched all of this with a look that had gone stiff and sour.
Then a stir moved through the entrance, and someone called out, "Vincent's here."
The room's attention swung toward the door. He was immaculate as always, his suit perfectly fitted, his bearing composed and magnetic — and Selina was on his arm, her smile bright and close. My gaze settled on her, or more precisely on the brooch pinned to her gown, catching the light with every movement she made.
Others noticed it too. Someone asked directly: "Selina, that brooch is gorgeous — it looks expensive. Did Vincent give it to you?"
Selina ducked her head with a becoming show of modesty. "Vincent did give me the stone," she said, "but the design itself — that was me."
The room responded with the enthusiasm she had clearly anticipated. A dancer with an eye for design — what a surprise, what a talent, she really ought to consider a career change. Selina received all of it with flushed cheeks and a performance of reluctant delight.
She had every reason to be uncomfortable. Because that brooch was my design. She had taken the sketches I had left behind at the villa.
I found her when she slipped away to the lounge and followed her in. She turned at the sound of her name, and the flash of guilt across her face was brief but unmistakable. "Chloe? What are you doing here?"
"Give me back what's mine," I said.
She blinked, her expression resetting into something blameless. "I don't know what you mean." When I looked pointedly at the brooch, she raised a hand to cover it and pivoted without pause. "If you're upset about Vincent — I promise you, I have never tried to come between you. He's the one who—"
"I'm talking about the brooch," I said, cutting her off. "You're a dancer, Selina. Did you really design that yourself?"
"Of course I did." Her eyes didn't quite meet mine. "If you don't believe me, I can show you the sketches."
I almost laughed. My own sketches, now repurposed as her alibi.
She shifted tactics again, her voice softening into something injured and sincere. She knew I didn't like her, she said. But she and Vincent were nothing — he only looked out for her because she was raising a child alone, and she hoped I wouldn't misread his kindness. She sighed and added, gently, that I ought to trust him more. My leaving had left him in a dark mood these past several days; she had suggested coming to the salon today precisely to lift his spirits.
"What you're telling me," I said, "is that you've been staying at the villa — the one where Vincent and I live — this entire time."
Her expression changed.
"Which is how you found the sketches I left behind," I continued, "and decided to keep them."
She started to say something else. I had no patience left for it. I reached for the brooch.
"Chloe!" She shoved me — hard — and I stumbled, my lower back catching the sharp corner of the table behind me. The pain was immediate and breathtaking, cold sweat breaking across my skin before I had even registered what had happened. Before I could recover, Selina grabbed my hand and pressed it against the brooch. Instinctively, I closed my fingers around it. She threw her weight against my hand, and the table's edge bit into my back a second time. The pain was bad enough that I couldn't make a sound.
"That hurt—" Selina's voice broke on a sob. Her eyes were red. I looked up and saw it: a dark stain spreading across the white fabric of her gown, where the brooch's pin had caught her.
"Chloe, I never stole anything from you." Her face was a portrait of wounded innocence as she unclasped the brooch and pressed it into my palm. "The stone was a gift from Vincent. If it bothers you that much, here — take it."
The understanding came to me a half-second too late. I turned toward the doorway.
Vincent was already there, his jaw set, his eyes hard with fury, stepping into the room.
