Chapter9

Eleanor's POV

Victoria's smile didn't falter, but something behind it shifted. She looked at him for a long moment, then at me, then back to him. The champagne glass in her hand stayed perfectly level.

"Of course," she said lightly. "I was just saying how lovely it is to finally meet her."

Alexander didn't respond.

Victoria's fingers tightened slightly on the stem of her glass. "Though I have to say," she continued, her tone still pleasant but with an edge creeping in, "Claire mentioned she'd seen Isabella in Paris last year. At that design showcase near the Marais. But looking at you now—" she tilted her head, "—you seem rather different from how she described."

The air went still.

My fingers pressed flat against the side of my dress. I didn't move. Didn't try to explain or deflect. I just held her gaze and kept my mouth shut, because anything I said now would be handing her exactly what she wanted.

Victoria waited. The smile stayed in place, patient and precise.

Then Alexander spoke.

He didn't acknowledge the Paris comment. Didn't touch Isabella's name. He just turned his head slightly toward Victoria, his voice calm and deliberate, and said, "Speaking of people being seen places — that charity gala in Chelsea last spring. You and Patricia Holt wore the same Chanel dress." He paused. "Hers was custom. Yours was off the rack. I don't think anyone in the room has forgotten."

Victoria's smile cracked. Just slightly, just at the corners, but I saw it.

"A lot of people still bring it up," Alexander continued, same even tone, like he was discussing the weather. "I'm just surprised it made you so interested in what everyone else is wearing."

Victoria took a slow breath and pulled herself together. Barely. She lifted her glass in a gesture that looked like a toast but felt like a retreat. "Alexander," she said, voice tight but controlled, "you seem to be in a very good mood tonight."

"I just got married," he said flatly.

The words landed like a door closing. Victoria's eyes flicked to me for half a second, then back to him. Whatever she'd been calculating came up empty. She straightened her shoulders and turned to me with a smile that had gone completely hollow.

"Isabella," she said. "I hope London suits you."

She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and walked away, heels clicking on the hardwood.

I watched them disappear into the crowd. The knot between my shoulder blades started to loosen — not much, just enough that the next breath came easier.

Alexander didn't say anything immediately after. He reached into his jacket, ran his thumb once across the silver pill case, then slipped it back. When he looked at me, his voice was low and flat.

"She won't bother you again. Not tonight."

I looked at him for a second, then nodded.

That was it. No you handled that well or don't let her get to you. Just a statement — the thing's been handled, you don't need to hold it anymore. Julian would have said she's just jealous, then somehow turned the whole thing into a story about himself. I shoved the thought down before it could settle.

The room had thinned out. The overhead lights had dimmed to a warm amber glow, and the music was barely there now, more like background texture than sound.

Alexander stepped back to where I was standing. "It's late," he said. "We've already registered the marriage." A pause. "You're coming back to the manor tonight."

Not a question. More like a fact he was informing me of, out of politeness.

I didn't answer right away.

I thought about the room at the West house.

North-facing. Small window that looked out onto a brick courtyard wall. The light never made it in — not in the morning, not at noon, not ever. The room itself was fine. Big enough. But Isabella treated it like storage. There was a rolling suitcase shoved against one wall that had been there for two years. A stack of fashion magazines she'd flipped through once and never touched again. A treadmill she'd bought on impulse, used twice, then abandoned in the corner.

Nobody thought it was a problem. Not Diana. Not the man Diana had married. Not Isabella. And I never said anything, because I knew exactly what my place in that house was. My mother's baggage. A daughter from before the marriage. No West blood. I lived there because someone allowed me to, not because I had any claim to it.

I looked at Alexander.

"Okay," I said. "I'll go."

He didn't ask why. I didn't explain.

The city fell away on either side of the car. Buildings got sparser, then vanished completely behind tall hedges. The car slowed at a set of iron gates that opened without us stopping, and then we were on a gravel drive, the sound of the tires crunching loud in the quiet.

I saw the white before I understood what it was.

At first I thought it was fog — London gets that kind of mist sometimes, thick and pale and clinging to stone. But then the headlights swept across it and I saw the shapes. Flowers. White climbing roses covered the entire front wall of the manor, blooms packed so tight they looked like snow, moving slightly in the wind. Past that, the flower beds along the lawn were full of more white — clusters of lily of the valley, round hydrangea heads, jasmine vines wrapped around the stone columns near the entrance.

My hand froze on the door handle.

Raymond got out and opened my door. I stepped onto the gravel and just stood there.

I couldn't move.

The flowers were everywhere. White on white in the lamplight, so pale they looked almost transparent, swaying in the breeze like they were breathing.

I walked toward the nearest bed and crouched down. My hand reached out on its own. I touched one of the rose petals. It was cool from the night air, damp, thin as tissue paper, impossibly soft.

I stayed there for a while. I forgot about the party. I forgot about Victoria and her questions. I forgot about the contract and the fake name and everything I'd left behind to get here. I just looked at the flowers and felt something I hadn't felt in longer than I could remember — like I didn't need to be on guard.

Footsteps on stone. I looked up. A man in a dark suit was coming down the front steps, older, gray at the temples, his posture perfectly straight.

"Mrs. Sterling," he said, stopping a respectful distance away. "These were replanted approximately three months ago. Mr. Sterling specified the varieties himself. He also chose where each bed should be placed."

I stood up slowly and turned around.

Alexander was on the steps behind me, the silver pill case open in his hand. He placed a tablet on his tongue, dry-swallowed it, then closed the case.

I walked over to him and stopped.

"How did you know," I said. My voice came out sounded happier than I thought it would. "That these are my favorites?"