Chapter8

Eleanor's POV

I hadn't figured out how to answer when the car pulled over. I pushed the door open and stepped out first—cold air rushed in, carrying away whatever I hadn't managed to say.

"Let's go in," I said, not looking back.

Alexander didn't press. He just closed the door and followed.

The registrar didn't look up when we walked in.

The waiting area was empty. I didn't ask how that happened. Raymond had gone in ahead of us, and by the time Alexander pushed through the door, there was nothing left to manage except the woman at the window and the documents in my bag.

She took the passport without comment, flipped to the photo page, and looked up.

Two seconds. Maybe less. But I felt every one of them in the tips of my fingers, pressed flat against the edge of the counter.

I didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't do anything that looked like guilt. I just waited, the way you wait for a light to change, like the outcome had nothing to do with me.

She slid the documents back across the counter and asked us to sign.

I picked up the pen and wrote Isabella West in the space provided. The signature looked like mine. It was supposed to.

Alexander signed after me. Fast, definitive. The whole thing took less than four minutes.

Outside, the fog had dropped lower. I let out a breath and watched it dissolve into the cold air. My hands weren't shaking anymore.

Alexander stepped out behind me and took out his phone. He raised it toward the door we'd just come through and took a photo—the entrance, the stone arch, the pale afternoon light.

"Nick's hosting something tonight, across the river," he said. "I need you there."

Not a question. I already knew that. I'd signed a contract that said exactly this.

"Understood," I said.

On the way back to the car, Alexander said, "We're going to pick out a dress now. You can get anything you like."

Raymond pulled up a few minutes later on a narrow street I didn't recognize.

The boutique had no sign. Just a matte black door on a narrow street, and staff who were clearly expecting us. A woman in dark wool led me straight to the fitting area and wheeled out a full rack without being asked—deep colors, sharp cuts, nothing that would read as trying too hard.

I moved down the rack and stopped at a deep burgundy dress. The neckline was clean, the waist and cuffs cut with the kind of precision that didn't need decoration to make a point. I pulled it off the hanger.

"This one."

In the fitting room mirror, I stood still for a moment after I'd changed. The woman looking back at me looked like she belonged somewhere like where we were going. That thought sat in my chest in a way I didn't entirely know what to do with.

I came out. Alexander was by the door, checking his phone. He glanced up, held the look for exactly one second, then looked back down.

"Ready," he said.

The party was on the top floor of a riverside townhouse. Not many guests, but every single one of them had the particular quality of people who don't need to announce what they're worth. When Alexander walked in, a quiet current moved through the room—heads didn't turn, but attention did.

He brought me to the window, where two men were standing. One wore a dark grey suit and had a loose, sharp energy about him. The other was quieter, holding a whiskey.

"Nick. Dexter," Alexander said. "My wife. Isabella."

My wife.

Nick extended his hand first, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Heard a lot. Good to finally put a face to it." He glanced at Alexander. "You move fast."

Dexter shook my hand briefly. His grip was measured.

I kept my smile easy and my answers short. Nick was curious. Dexter was assessing. I played the part of someone new to the room, which wasn't entirely a performance.

The conversation moved between business and people they knew in common. I stayed at the edge of it, nodding when it made sense to nod. Then a man in a dark suit appeared at Alexander's shoulder and said something low. Alexander glanced at me—less than a second.

"I'll be back," he said.

"Go ahead."

He left. Nick drifted toward someone across the room. Dexter followed a moment later. I was alone by the window with a glass of champagne I'd barely touched, and I ran a slow scan of the room without moving my head.

Two men near the fireplace were talking about me. I caught fragments—my profile, the way I was standing, something about having seen me before but not being able to place it. They weren't being unkind. They were just doing what this room did: cataloguing.

Seen me before. I filed that.

"That dress is stunning."

I turned. The woman who'd stopped beside me was somewhere in her fifties, understated in charcoal silk, the kind of low-profile that takes effort to maintain. She had the specific stillness of someone who'd spent decades deciding exactly how much to reveal.

"Thank you," I said.

She smiled. "Victoria Sterling. Alexander's aunt." A brief pause, just long enough to be deliberate. "I heard someone mention they'd seen you at school once. But looking at you now—" she tilted her head, "—you seem a little different from how they described."

The temperature in my immediate vicinity dropped about three degrees.

Someone saw Isabella at school. I didn't know how well. I didn't know if Victoria was guessing or confirming. I didn't know if this was a test or a trap or just a well-aimed observation from a woman who collected them for sport.

I took a small sip of champagne and met her eyes.

I didn't say anything. Explaining was the same as confessing.

Victoria's smile stayed exactly where it was, patient and precise, waiting for the crack.

Then the air changed.

I didn't hear him approach. I just felt the shift—the way the room's attention redistributed itself half a degree, the way Victoria's shoulder line tightened almost imperceptibly.

Alexander stepped up beside me, close enough that his arm nearly brushed mine. He didn't look at me. His eyes went directly to Victoria.

"Any questions about my wife," he said, "I'm happy to answer them."