Chapter 3

The Humiliation.

I didn’t sleep much. Kept staring at Vianne’s name on the screen, that second message sitting under it like a rock in my shoe. Dorian slept fine next to me, arm heavy over my waist, no clue his sister had already kicked something loose.

Told him about the text in the morning. Left out the gold digger part. Said she was just checking in, seeing how I’d handled dinner. He gave me a look, didn’t quite buy it, let it go anyway. Mercy I probably didn’t earn.

The invitation showed up two days after. Gala. Some foundation thing Marcella chairs, black tie, half the city’s money crammed into one room. Dorian said we had to go, obligated to wear the costume of tradition, and I said fine. Sure. Of course. My stomach is already somewhere down around my ankles.

Picked a navy dress, simple, nothing that screamed anything because I don’t own things that scream anymore, haven’t in years. Vianne met us at the door in something that probably cost more than my old rent for a year, looked me over with that same dinner-table smile, the one that quits before it gets anywhere near her eyes.

“You look lovely,” she said. “Very understated.”

Translation. Cheap. Got it, thanks.

The ballroom was loud in that way that isn’t loud, a hundred quiet conversations stacked on top of each other, glasses clinking, a quartet nobody’s actually listening to. Dorian got pulled away almost immediately, some handshake that turned into ten minutes I had no part in. Left me standing at the edge holding a drink, trying to look like I had a reason to be there.

Marcella found me. Of course she did.

“Seren. So glad you could come.” Said it to the room, not to me, loud enough that heads turned. “I was just telling Adelaide here, this is Dorian’s wife. The one from the accounting family.”

Adelaide, whoever she was, gave me a smile that didn’t mean anything and a once-over that meant plenty.

“How wonderful,” Adelaide said. “And what do you do, dear?”

“Bookkeeping,” I said. “Freelance, mostly.”

Marcella’s smile stretched. “Bookkeeping.” Said it like she was tasting something gone a little off. “How practical.”

That word again. Practical. Starting to get it wasn’t a compliment coming from her, not ever.

Should’ve seen the rest coming. Some part of me did, honestly, go cold about thirty seconds before it happened.

She raised her glass, got the little cluster around us paying attention, bright as anything. “Seren, darling, why don’t you tell everyone how you and Dorian met. Such a sweet little story.”

Everyone turned. Dorian was still trapped across the room in his handshake, hadn’t noticed any of this building.

“Bookstore,” I said.

“Yes, but tell them the rest. Your background. I think everyone would find it fascinating. Such a different world from ours.”

There it was. Setup. Get me talking about my modest little life in front of a room that measures a person’s worth by zip code, let them do the math, let them decide exactly what I brought to the table and what I clearly didn’t.

Could’ve said something. Could’ve let a little truth slip right there. Arlisse. My father. The company. Watch every face in that circle rearrange itself in half a second flat. So easy. One sentence and her smug little smile cracks in two.

Didn’t do it.

“Not much to tell,” I said instead, keeping my voice level. “Grew up ordinary. I worked hard. I fell in love with your son. That’s the whole story, really.”

“How refreshing,” Adelaide said, not like she meant it.

“Refreshing,” Marcella echoed. “Though I do wonder sometimes what a girl like that sees in all this.” Waved a hand at the chandeliers, the whole glittering weight of the room. “Must feel like a fairy tale.”

Somebody near her laughed. Quiet. Not really about anything funny. I felt my face go hot, so I kept it still. Didn’t let it move an inch.

“It’s a beautiful room,” I said. “Thank you for having me.”

Left it there. Didn’t reach for the knife she was holding out, handle first, practically begging me to grab it. Just smiled, let it pass, watched something flicker across her face that wasn’t exactly. More like she hadn’t expected me not to break.

Dorian showed up maybe two minutes later, oblivious, hand at my back. “Sorry, that took forever. Are you good?”

“I’m good.”

Wasn’t the only one who noticed, though. Cassian had been standing there the whole time, off to the side, drink barely touched, watching it all with a look I couldn’t quite place. Not amusement. Not disgust either. Something closer to filing something away for later.

Got a minute alone with Dorian by the terrace doors eventually. He asked what that had been about.

“Nothing. Your mother likes to make conversation.”

“Didn’t look like a conversation.”

“It’s fine, Dorian.”

Studied me a second, jaw tight, deciding whether to push. Let it go, but pulled me closer first, arm around my waist, a quiet kind of apology for a room I’d have to keep smiling through.

“You handled that better than I would’ve,” he said.

“It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Kind of was, actually.” Looked at me a beat too long, something working behind his eyes I couldn’t read yet. “Most people I know would’ve said something back. You just let it slide right off.”

Shrugged. Didn’t tell him it wasn’t grace. It was practice. Years of practice, learning exactly how to go quiet inside a moment so nobody could see what was actually underneath.

Gala wound down. Thought maybe I’d gotten through in one piece. Didn’t win, not exactly, but didn’t lose either. Small mercies.

Found out how wrong that was the next morning.

The phone rang while I was still half asleep. Heard Dorian answer, heard his voice shift from groggy to alert in about two seconds flat.

“When did this come in,” he was saying. “From who?”

Hung up, sat there a second before he turned to me.

“My mother’s assistant,” he said slowly. “Someone did some digging. Records. School. Old address. Employment history.”

My stomach dropped clean through the mattress.

“And?”

“And it all checks out.” Said it almost like a question, waiting for me to correct him. “Everything you told her. All there. Ordinary as it gets.”

I should have felt relief right then. Fake paper trail held. The version of me I’d spent years quietly building was solid enough to survive a background check from a woman with real money behind her. Should’ve felt like winning.

Instead of all I could think, somebody went looking. Somebody cared enough to dig that fast, that close, after two encounters. And if the fake trail satisfied them this easily, held up enough to make them stop for now, that wasn’t the end of it. Wouldn’t take much more before somebody pulled hard enough to find the seams.

“That’s good, right?” Dorian said, watching my face like he was trying to read something in it he couldn’t quite get to. “Isn’t that good news?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Good news.”

Didn’t sound like I believed it. I wasn’t sure I did.