Chapter 10: The Engagement Party
1820 Words
The Blackwood estate was a castle in everything but name.
Isabella had seen photographs before—grainy images splashed across society magazines her aunt devoured like sacred scripture. But no photograph could have prepared her for the reality.
The wrought-iron gates alone looked expensive enough to purchase an entire neighborhood.
Beyond them stretched a winding drive lined with ancient oak trees, their branches arching overhead like silent sentinels. At the end stood the manor itself, a sprawling stone fortress that had survived wars, recessions, scandals, and generations of Blackwoods.
It was the kind of place where dynasties were built.
And where secrets were buried.
Seated in the back of the town car, Isabella pressed one hand against her stomach and the other against the leather seat.
The baby had been quiet all day.
Or maybe that was wishful thinking. At ten weeks, there was nothing to feel yet except nausea and exhaustion.
Her navy silk gown flowed elegantly over her body, modest compared to the dresses worn by most women in Alexander's world. Long sleeves. High neckline.
Safe.
Alexander had chosen it himself.
She hadn't argued.
“You're nervous.”
His deep voice pulled her from her thoughts.
She glanced sideways.
Alexander sat beside her in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo. Calm. Collected. Infuriatingly handsome.
Like a king riding to his own coronation.
“I'm not nervous,” she said.
“No?”
“I'm calculating the fastest route to the nearest exit.”
His mouth twitched.
“That's the same thing.”
“No.” She folded her arms. “Nervous is hoping you'll survive.”
“And calculating?”
“Planning for when you don't.”
For a second, genuine amusement flashed across his face.
Then his expression softened.
“You'll survive.”
“Will I?”
“I'll make sure of it.”
Something about the certainty in his voice made her stomach tighten.
Not from pregnancy this time.
The car rolled to a stop.
A liveried valet opened the door.
Alexander stepped out first before turning and offering his hand.
His fingers closed around hers.
Warm.
Steady.
Dangerously reassuring.
As they approached the massive entrance doors, he leaned closer.
“Remember something tonight.”
“What?”
“You are not a prisoner.”
She almost laughed.
“That's generous of you.”
His gaze shifted toward her.
“You're my fiancée.”
The word still felt strange.
Unreal.
“Act like you belong here.”
“And how exactly does a fiancée act?”
A slow smile appeared.
“Like she owns the place.”
Isabella lifted her chin.
Straightened her shoulders.
And walked through the doors.
The ballroom fell silent.
Not completely.
Just enough.
Enough for her to feel hundreds of eyes turn toward them.
The room gleamed beneath crystal chandeliers. Marble floors reflected golden light. A string quartet played softly near the grand staircase.
Every guest looked rich.
Every guest looked powerful.
And every guest was staring at her.
The whispers began almost immediately.
“That's her?”
“The girl from the gala?”
“She looks younger than I expected.”
“Pretty.”
“Ordinary.”
“Eleanor must be furious.”
The words floated through the room like smoke.
Isabella smiled anyway.
She'd spent most of her life being judged.
By teachers.
By relatives.
By strangers who saw poverty and assumed weakness.
This was nothing new.
Just wealthier.
Alexander's hand settled against the small of her back.
Possessive.
Protective.
Guiding.
He moved through the crowd with effortless authority.
People stepped aside without realizing they were doing it.
Like the sea parting before a ship.
A waiter approached.
“Champagne, sir?”
“Sparkling cider.”
The waiter blinked.
Alexander's expression never changed.
“My fiancée isn't drinking tonight.”
“Of course, sir.”
The waiter disappeared.
Isabella looked up.
“You remembered.”
His eyes met hers.
“I remember everything about you.”
The words settled between them.
Heavy.
Intimate.
Dangerous.
She wasn't entirely sure whether it sounded like a promise.
Or a warning.
Eleanor found them near the piano.
Silver silk.
Diamonds.
Perfect posture.
She looked less like a mother and more like a queen inspecting her kingdom.
“Alexander.”
She kissed his cheek.
Then turned toward Isabella.
“Isabella.”
The slight inclination of her head was barely noticeable.
But Isabella recognized it for what it was.
The minimum amount of acknowledgment required by etiquette.
Nothing more.
“Eleanor.”
A flicker appeared in the older woman's eyes.
Interesting.
“You chose navy.”
“I did.”
“A safe choice.”
“I prefer elegant.”
For a moment, neither woman blinked.
Alexander wisely said nothing.
“Hmm.”
Eleanor shifted her attention back to her son.
“Vivian is here.”
Of course she was.
“Her father insisted on attending.”
“I see.”
“Try not to create a scene.”
Alexander raised an eyebrow.
“I never create scenes.”
“You create disasters.”
Without waiting for a response, Eleanor walked away.
Leaving behind expensive perfume and unspoken disapproval.
Isabella exhaled.
“She gets more charming every time we meet.”
“She does not.”
“No,” Isabella agreed. “She really doesn't.”
Vivian arrived precisely one hour later.
As though she'd timed her entrance.
She wore red.
Not subtle red.
Not elegant red.
War red.
Every head in the room turned.
The dress hugged every curve.
The sl*t climbed dangerously high.
She looked stunning.
And she knew it.
Vivian walked directly toward them.
“You look well.”
Her hand brushed Alexander's arm.
“Stress agrees with you.”
“Vivian.”
He remained polite.
Distant.
Untouchable.
She turned toward Isabella.
Her smile sharpened.
“Isabella. What a lovely dress.”
A pause.
“Very understated.”
Translation:
Not good enough.
Isabella smiled sweetly.
“I prefer letting my face do the talking.”
The smile vanished for half a second.
Then returned.
“How refreshing.”
Score one for Isabella.
Dinner passed without disaster.
Mostly.
Until the speeches.
Eleanor stood first.
She spoke about legacy.
Family.
Responsibility.
The Blackwood name.
She spoke for nearly ten minutes.
And somehow never mentioned Isabella once.
Not by name.
Not directly.
Only as:
“Alexander's chosen companion.”
The insult was subtle.
Which made it worse.
Alexander's speech was mercifully brief.
Then Vivian's father stood.
The room instantly quieted.
He was a large man with a booming voice and the confidence of someone accustomed to getting whatever he wanted.
He spoke about friendship.
Partnership.
History between families.
Then his gaze landed on Isabella.
“I hope,” he said smoothly, “that the woman who marries Alexander understands what a privilege it is.”
The room froze.
Everyone understood exactly what he meant.
You don't belong here.
Isabella met his gaze.
And smiled.
“I understand perfectly.”
Silence.
Tension stretched like piano wire.
Then the man laughed.
Too loudly.
Too quickly.
“To the happy couple.”
Glasses lifted.
The moment passed.
But Isabella knew she had won.
At least this round.
She escaped to the terrace during dessert.
The cool night air felt like freedom.
Below, the gardens stretched endlessly beneath moonlight.
For a few precious minutes, there was silence.
Then footsteps approached.
Alexander.
Of course.
“You shouldn't be out here alone.”
She leaned against the stone railing.
“I needed a break from your mother's friends.”
“They aren't my friends.”
“They certainly aren't mine.”
He moved beside her.
Close enough that she felt his warmth.
“You handled Vivian's father well.”
“I've had practice with difficult men.”
His eyebrow rose.
“Have you?”
“My uncle. My aunt. Teachers who looked at me and saw a problem to manage.”
She looked directly at him.
“You're not the first person to underestimate me.”
His expression shifted.
“I don't underestimate you.”
“No.”
A bitter smile appeared.
“You just collected photographs of me and locked me in a penthouse.”
The guilt was immediate.
Visible.
Good.
“I'm trying to do better.”
“Try harder.”
For a moment, neither moved.
The distance between them felt impossibly small.
One step.
Maybe less.
His gaze dropped briefly to her lips.
Then returned to her eyes.
Something dangerous flickered there.
Something neither of them was ready to name.
Isabella broke eye contact first.
Turned.
And walked back inside.
Leaving him alone beneath the stars.
The drive home was quiet.
Exhaustion settled into her bones.
The party was over.
But the performance wasn't.
Not yet.
“You did well tonight.”
Alexander's voice cut through the silence.
She stared out the window.
“I survived.”
His gaze lingered on her profile.
“That's more than most people manage.”
Finally she looked at him.
“Is that what you want for me?”
“What?”
“Survival.”
His expression darkened.
“I want you safe.”
A humorless laugh escaped her.
“Safe isn't the same thing as alive.”
The words hit harder than she'd intended.
Because they were true.
And because he knew they were true.
The car stopped.
Without another word, she stepped out.
Walked toward the building.
And didn't look back.
That night, Arianna returned.
Not as a photograph.
Not as a ghost.
But as a dream.
She sat in a garden filled with flowers Isabella didn't recognize.
Wearing white.
Smiling softly.
“You're stronger than I was.”
“I don't feel strong.”
Arianna laughed gently.
“Strength isn't a feeling.”
The wind stirred her dress.
“It's a choice.”
She reached out and touched Isabella's hand.
“You keep going. That's what makes you strong.”
Emotion tightened Isabella's throat.
“What would you have done?”
“In my place?”
Arianna's smile faded.
Slowly.
Painfully.
“I would have stayed.”
The answer came immediately.
“I would have loved him.”
Her eyes grew distant.
“And I would have lost myself trying to save him.”
Silence.
“Is that what I'm doing?”
“I don't know.”
Arianna stood.
The garden blurred around her.
“But I know one thing.”
“What?”
A small smile returned.
“You're not me.”
The world began dissolving.
“Maybe that's enough.”
Isabella woke with sunlight pouring through the windows.
The dream lingered.
The warning lingered.
The ache lingered.
Beside her bed sat untouched breakfast.
The penthouse was quiet.
Too quiet.
Alexander was already gone.
She stared at the empty room for a long time.
Then at the door.
And wondered why his absence suddenly felt so noticeable.
Why it felt like something was missing.
And why, for the first time, she found herself wondering whether he would come back.
- Writer
