CHAPTER 69

PLANT A SEED OF DOUBT…

The day of Kate’s gathering dawned quietly, but there was an undercurrent of tension that threaded through the Vandell estate like a taut wire. Abigail woke to the faint rustle of curtains being drawn aside by the maid, golden light spilling across her bed. She sat up slowly, her mind already working, knowing instinctively that this was not just another evening.

She had overheard enough whispers, seen enough glances, to know Kate was planning something. Whether it was a test, a trap, or an opportunity, she couldn’t yet tell. But one thing was certain she couldn’t afford to falter.

By mid-morning, preparations were already underway. Florists arrived with arrangements of rare orchids and lilies; the kitchen hummed with activity. Servants carried polished silver trays and cut-glass decanters. This was no grand gala, no sweeping ball. It was smaller, sharper, meant to be intimate and that intimacy made it all the more dangerous.

In another wing of the estate, Carmen sat with Obetta in her chamber. The older woman’s eyes were as sharp as the jeweled pin glinting in her hair. She had been awake since dawn, her mind turning over possibilities like a chess master examining the board.

“This evening is not just a gathering,” Carmen murmured, her tone low but firm. “It is Kate’s stage. She will watch. She will measure. And Abigail..” her lips curved faintly “Abigail will attempt to prove herself. That is when she is most vulnerable.”

Obetta’s brows knitted. “You want me to strike tonight? In Kate’s presence?”

“Not strike,” Carmen corrected smoothly. “You are too clumsy when you strike. Tonight, you will unsettle. Plant a seed of doubt. Do it so subtly that even Kate cannot say for certain what happened, only that Abigail faltered.”

Obetta leaned forward, curiosity piqued. “And how do you suggest I do that?”

Carmen’s gaze swept to the dressing table, where an invitation to the evening lay propped. “There will be conversation. There will be performance. Every gathering is a performance. Find your moment, Obetta. Question her taste, her judgment, her understanding of this world. Make it sound like an innocent observation. If she stumbles, if she grows defensive, Kate will see it. And that is all we need.”

Obetta nodded slowly, her lips curling into a smile. For once, Carmen’s calm guidance steadied her. “Very well. I’ll make sure Abigail shows her cracks.”

Carmen raised her glass of water, her eyes narrowing with quiet resolve. “Do not fail me again.”

Evening came draped in velvet shadows. The Vandell estate glowed with candlelight, lanterns lining the garden path that led to a private salon rarely used except for Kate’s most exclusive occasions.

Abigail descended the staircase dressed in a gown of deep emerald silk, her hair swept into an elegant twist that bared her neck and shoulders. The dress had been chosen carefully rich enough to command attention, but understated enough not to appear ostentatious. Luke, standing at the base of the stairs, lifted his gaze to her with quiet pride.

“You’re ready,” he murmured, offering his arm.

Abigail managed a small smile, her nerves coiled tight beneath her composure. “As ready as I can be.”

He leaned closer, his voice pitched low so only she could hear. “Don’t try to impress them, Abigail. Simply endure. That will be enough.”

She nodded, but in her heart she knew endurance wasn’t enough. Not tonight.

The salon was a picture of refinement. Persian rugs softened the marble floors, while oil paintings of centuries-old Vandell ancestors gazed down from gilded frames. A long table gleamed with crystal glasses and porcelain plates, but the seating was arranged not for dining but for conversation armchairs in small clusters, intimate circles designed to force dialogue.

Kate sat at the head of the room, a vision of poise in a gown of muted silver, her dark eyes sweeping across her guests. She did not smile, but her expression carried the faintest edge of welcome.

The guests were carefully chosen: Helena Cruz, sharp-eyed and elegant; two women from the Ravelin family, known for their art collections; an older gentleman critic who wrote for an influential cultural journal; and of course, Carmen and Obetta, invited not out of warmth but necessity.

Abigail entered with Luke at her side, her presence drawing gazes almost immediately. She greeted each guest politely, her voice even, her posture measured. Yet beneath the civility, she felt the weight of every stare.

The evening began with conversation about the gallery Kate was sponsoring next month. The critic dominated at first, waxing lyrical about artistic trends, while the Ravelin sisters interjected with lofty remarks. Abigail listened carefully, her hands folded neatly in her lap, until the critic turned to her unexpectedly.

“And what do you think, Mrs. Vandell?” His tone was polite, but there was a spark of curiosity an unspoken question of whether she belonged in this circle at all.

Abigail felt her heart beat faster, but she did not hesitate. “Art, like power, has always reflected its time,” she said evenly. “But I think what makes it meaningful isn’t just who creates it, but who receives it. A painting is silent until someone stands before it, until it stirs something in them. That’s why art endures it bridges the distance between the creator and the observer.”

For a moment, silence followed. Then Helena Cruz leaned back with a faint smile. “A thoughtful answer,” she remarked.

The critic tilted his head, considering her words. “Interesting perspective,” he conceded, though his tone remained measured.

Across the room, Carmen’s eyes narrowed, and Obetta shifted impatiently in her seat.

As the evening wore on, the conversation shifted to estates, wealth, and legacy. Here, the waters grew more treacherous. One of the Ravelin sisters asked Abigail with mock innocence, “And how do you find managing the demands of… such a family as the Vandells? It must be overwhelming for someone of your background.”

The words were sharp beneath their veneer. Abigail felt the heat of them, but she forced a calm smile. “It’s not about where you begin,” she said softly, her gaze steady. “It’s about how willing you are to learn. Every day, I learn more about what it means to be part of this family, and I consider that a privilege.”

A murmur swept through the group, polite but speculative. Kate’s eyes, cool and unreadable, flicked toward Abigail.

It was then that Obetta leaned forward, her voice honeyed but edged with poison. “Learning is important, of course. But there are things that cannot be learned, don’t you think? A sense of… heritage. A history of knowing one’s place among the wealthy.”

The air in the room shifted. Subtle, but noticeable. Obetta’s words lingered, daring Abigail to respond.

For a heartbeat, Abigail’s throat tightened. She knew this was no innocent observation. It was a knife dressed as a question. She could feel Carmen’s gaze pressing like a weight, waiting to see if she faltered.

Abigail inhaled slowly, then let her lips curve into a serene smile. “Heritage is a fine thing,” she said gently. “But it can also be a cage. If all we ever valued was what we inherited, then none of us would grow. Perhaps that’s why people like me unsettle others we remind them that wealth is not the only key to belonging.”

Her words were soft, almost too soft. But their echo carried weight.

For the first time, Obetta’s composure cracked. She blinked, visibly startled, before trying to laugh lightly, though it rang hollow.

Kate’s gaze sharpened, her expression unreadable, but she raised her glass and murmured, “Well said.”

The conversation moved on, but the balance in the room had shifted. Abigail had not only survived she had turned the knife back on its wielder.

By the time the evening drew to a close, the guests departed with murmurs of interest and speculation. The critic shook Abigail’s hand warmly, Helena Cruz offered her a subtle nod, and even the Ravelins, though cool, did not dismiss her outright.

When the salon was finally empty, Kate remained seated, her gaze fixed on Abigail. “You handled yourself with restraint,” she said, her tone even. “Restraint is rare in this house.”

Abigail bowed her head slightly, unsure whether it was praise or warning.

Kate rose, her gown whispering as she moved toward the door. “We shall see,” she murmured as she passed, leaving Abigail standing in the glow of the firelight, her heart pounding.

In the shadows, Carmen led Obetta away, her hand gripping the younger woman’s arm tightly. “Fool,” she hissed under her breath. “Do you see now? She is not so easily broken.”

Obetta winced but said nothing, shame burning her cheeks.

Carmen’s eyes were cold, but in their depths, a spark of something darker ignited not defeat, but determination. “Then we must dig deeper,” she whispered. “If Kate begins to favor her, then Abigail must not only stumble she must fall.”

And so, as lanterns dimmed across the estate, the game moved into its next stage.