Chapter 2 – A Smile That Feels Like Poison
667 Words
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The party swelled with more laughter, more champagne, more meaningless chatter.
But Charmaine could feel it—the undercurrent of tension threaded through the music and polite smiles, like a string pulled too tight.
From the far side of the ballroom, Rowan was radiant, surrounded by a group of young men who seemed enamored by her every word. She moved like a siren—every tilt of her head deliberate, every laugh laced with something just sharp enough to pierce through you.
And there was Jayson.
Always near her, always leaning in just enough for their shoulders to brush, always catching her gaze for far too long.
Charmaine’s fingers curled against the stem of her glass. She’d grown up with enough diplomacy to school her face into normalcy , but her inner turmoil betrayed her. She’d seen women like Rowan in the social world—women who smiled as they took everything you had, and then asked for more.
Douglas Deparker appeared beside her. “Charmaine,” he said briskly, as though her name was a business matter to be handled. “Have you thanked the governor for attending? Or the Baileys? You’re letting guests slip away without making an impression.”
“I’ve spoken to most of them,” she said evenly. “And the Baileys aren’t here.”
Her father’s face tightened. “They were invited. Damien Bailey is a man worth knowing.” His eyes swept over her gown and the roses in her arms. “Try to look more presentable when you speak with important people. And put those flowers down—they make you look like you're desperately clinging to something.”
She swallowed back everything that wanted to rise. “Noted.”
Douglas nodded once and disappeared back into the crowd, his attention already captured by another conversation.
Charmaine set the bouquet on a side table, the black ribbon catching the candlelight like a thread of night. Without them in her arms, she felt strangely bare.
“Your father’s right, you know,” a voice purred behind her.
Rowan.
Charmaine turned, meeting that familiar, infuriating smile—the one that could make strangers believe they were being complimented while she slid the knife in.
“You should socialize more,” Rowan said, sipping from her champagne. “Though maybe not with Jayson… he’s had enough of you for the night.”
“Careful, Rowan,” Charmaine replied softly. “Your crown is slipping.”
Rowan laughed—a bright, a crinkling sound that somehow felt like a slap. “If you think this is a competition, you’re already losing.” She leaned closer, her perfume a heady mix of jasmine and something darker. “You should know by now… I always get what I want.”
Before Charmaine could answer, Jayson appeared at Rowan’s side, his hand brushing her elbow in that casual, intimate way that made Charmaine’s stomach twists.
“There you are,” he said to Charmaine, though his eyes lingered on Rowan. “Your father wants you for another toast.”
“Of course,” she murmured.
As they moved back toward the center of the ballroom, Charmaine felt the weight of whispers. Guests watched her, some with polite smiles, others with the quiet, hungry curiosity of people waiting for a crack to appear in the perfect façade.
The toasts went on—Douglas speaking of alliances, Lily speaking of beauty and grace, Jayson offering a practiced compliment about their “shared future.” Charmaine stood there, smiling when expected, her hand light on Jayson’s arm.
And yet… every time Rowan’s gaze met hers over the rim of a champagne flute, Charmaine felt the same thing she had when she touched those roses earlier—beauty hiding something ominous.
The night ended with polite goodbyes, the clink of last glasses, and the fading of the orchestra’s music. But when Charmaine climbed the stairs to her bedroom later, her mind replayed every smile Rowan had given her.
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- Writer
