Chapter Nineteen
569 Words
Felicity Hawthorne did not cry.
She had been raised better than that.
She stood in the center of the ballroom long after the applause faded, her spine straight, chin lifted, her dark hair swept into a flawless chignon that framed her exquisite face. Diamonds and gold dripped from her neck and wrists, Paris couture hugging her body like a second skin. She looked every inch like what she was born to be—power, privilege, perfection.
And she had just been replaced.
Around her, society buzzed. Some whispered behind gloved hands. Others stared openly, devouring the scandal. Felicity absorbed it all with a frozen smile, her brown eyes locked on Stella as Kurt guided her away from the crowd, protective and unmistakably possessive.
That girl does not belong here.
Felicity turned slowly, her heels clicking softly as she approached her parents, who were already pale with disbelief.
“This is a mistake,” her mother murmured.
Felicity smiled — thin, controlled. “No. This is an insult.”
She leaned in, her voice silk and steel. “I want everything on her. Now.”
Her father hesitated. “Darling—”
“I don’t care where she came from,” Felicity said coolly. “I want to know what she’s hiding.”
By morning, Felicity’s people were already at work.
Private investigators. Journalists who owed favors. Hospital staff with loose lips and tighter morals. It didn’t take long.
The story unraveled quickly — and to Felicity’s delight, it was ugly.
Found unconscious on a deserted road.
No identification.
No family.
No past.
A gypsy.
Felicity stood in her dressing room later that afternoon, sunlight glinting off gold chains as she read the report, lips curving with satisfaction.
“A dirty little nobody,” she murmured.
She scoffed, tossing the papers onto the vanity. “A thief, no doubt. Probably sleeping in ditches and stealing chickens before she stumbled into Kurt’s car.”
Her reflection stared back at her — beautiful, immaculate, righteous in her own mind.
“How dare she,” Felicity whispered. “How dare she touch what’s mine?”
She remembered Stella’s wide-eyed shock at the announcement, the way she clung to Kurt like a frightened child. Weak. Unsophisticated. Embarrassing.
Not fit to breathe the same air as a Carlisle.
Felicity began to plan.
If Stella was a gypsy, then society would devour her.
If she had no name, Felicity would make sure one was given to her — and drag it through the mud.
If Kurt had chosen her out of pity or impulse, Felicity would remind him exactly who Stella really was.
She picked up her phone.
“Release nothing yet,” she said smoothly. “I want to be careful. Strategic.”
A pause.
“Yes,” Felicity continued. “Start with the camps. Find out where she ran from. What she stole. Who wants her back?
Her smile sharpened.
“If she belongs to anyone else,” she added softly, “I intend to return her.”
Across the city, Stella stood at the window of the Carlisle estate, unaware of the storm gathering around her.
Kurt joined her, his presence steady, grounding.
“You’re safe,” he said again.
But far away, Felicity Hawthorne slipped on her gloves and prepared to dismantle a woman she considered beneath contempt.
Because in Felicity’s world, love was a transaction.
And Stella had stolen something priceless.
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