Chapter Four

The invitation was made of ivory cardstock, laced in gold foil, and wrapped in a lie.

The Ashworth Foundation Annual Charity Gala.

Dress code: cruelty masked in couture.

I stood beneath the towering glass arch of the Venari Ballroom, the cold winter wind teasing the slit of the silk gown I wore. Midnight blue. Backless. Sleek. A fabric that kissed every curve and promised power I hadn’t quite reclaimed yet.

Killian’s assistant had dropped it off that morning, boxed and pressed and paired with heels I couldn’t pronounce. The note attached was simple.

Wear it. Remind them who the hell you are.

I did.

Because tonight, I would walk into a room that once praised me... and now waited to devour me.

The moment I stepped from the car, a wall of camera flashes exploded across the curb. Shutters clicked like rapid-fire gunshots. Reporters shouted questions I didn’t answer.

“Emery, is it true you were never married to Tobias?”

“Were you the other woman all along?”

“Where have you been hiding?”

I didn’t flinch. I walked past them like I didn’t hear a word. The heels clicked clean and sharp on the marble steps as I entered the ballroom alone.

Inside, the world glittered.

Chandeliers sparkled overhead like constellations. Champagne flowed like water. Perfume hung thick in the air, woven with whispered speculation and practiced laughter.

Eyes turned the second I crossed the threshold.

All of them.

I didn’t falter.

I wouldn’t dare. Instead I moved with my head held high and spine straight.

God forbid any of them sees me cower.

 I had no idea where Killian was.

He said he’d meet me inside. That tonight was a test.

I just hadn’t realized it would feel like a war zone.

"Is that her?" someone murmured behind a jeweled fan.

"She actually came?" another voice hissed.

"She’s braver than I thought... or just too stupid to stay gone."

Their words slid over me like glass but I kept my expression neutral as I walked past them.

“She's pretty,” a voice murmured behind me, “in a used sort of way.”

I felt it.

That familiar twist in my chest. That ache of rage trying to claw its way through my ribs.

A waiter stopped beside me, holding out a chilled flute of champagne.

I took it—not because I wanted it, but because holding something in my hand made me feel less exposed.

I turned, trying to escape the cluster of eyes—and slammed straight into red wine.

The glass tipped forward in slow motion, spilling dark liquid down the front of my gown.

“Oh no,” 

A groan escaped my lips before I looked up because I knew just who that icy and high pitched voice belonged to.

Her face was taut with age and filler, lips pinched into a practiced pout. She wore pearls thick enough to strangle someone and a gown that tried too hard to hold her youth in place.

The senator’s wife.

I remembered her well.

At a fundraiser two years ago, she’d asked Tobias if I was his arm candy or his charity case.

“How clumsy of me,” she said sweetly, dabbing uselessly at the stain with a napkin she hadn’t even offered.

“Must be hard, dear,” she added with a cruel smile, “having no one left to clean up after you.”

I gripped the stem of my champagne glass so tightly I could have sworn it creaked in my hand.

“Careful,” another woman said as she brushed past. “Wouldn’t want the homewrecker to lash out on you.”

Laughter followed her words. Loud, Sharp and Too rehearsed to be real but pointed enough to wound.

My hand trembled.

I blinked, trying to steady the burn in my chest. I couldn’t let them get to me. Not here. Not in front of them.

But the room was starting to blur. Their voices filled my ears like smoke.

Until another voice sliced through it all.

“Touch her again,” it said, “and I’ll destroy your family name so thoroughly you’ll be Googling yourself in regret for the rest of your life.”

Silence hit the room like a lightning strike.

Every eye turned.

And there he was.

Killian Wolfe.

He wore a black tailored suit that fit like it had been stitched directly onto sin. His tie hung loose, his watch catching the chandelier light, and his presence—God, his presence—pulled the air out of the room.

He wasn’t smiling.

The room shrank around him as he walked toward me.

No. Not walked.

He stalked.

Like an apex predator entering a den of scavengers.

He stopped in front of me and gently took the flute from my hand. His fingers brushed mine, lingering just long enough to make my breath catch. He set the glass on a passing tray without breaking eye contact.

Then he lifted my hand—the one stained with red wine, still shaking from restraint—and pressed a kiss to the back of it.

A kiss that was light but still felt like he was claiming me - and I was sure everyone in the room thought the same too, judging from the few gasps that followed.

He turned to the senator’s wife, and smirked, “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers,” he said. “And from my mother, who, by the way, always hated you.”

The woman paled, but she shook her head and gave him a grin that looked so forced it was almost sickening to look at.

“We were only playing with Emery here dear.”

“Yes,” the other woman replied, “we know she’s your sister in law but…technically she isn’t anymore so there’s no need to defend is there?”

Killian’s gaze cut to her, “sister in law? Who said so?”

He pulled me closer and put his arm around my shoulders, 

“Emery here is my fiancée.” he said. “The future Mrs. Wolfe.”

Gasps scattered like dropped glasses.

The senator’s wife visibly blanched.

“So you all will understand that I will not take any disrespect towards my future wife lightly.”