Not That Type of Guest

The clink of fine china. The low hum of jazz. Laughter that floated like perfume; sweet, expensive, and never quite sincere.

I stood at the edge of the Sterling estate’s garden, near a perfectly manicured hedge dotted with white blooms. Around me, guests mingled like practiced dancers, weaving between high tables draped in crisp linens, their conversations light and polished. A woman in emerald silk threw her head back in a laugh that didn’t quite touch her eyes. Another dabbed at the corner of her lips with a napkin embroidered with the Sterling crest.

I held a glass of sparkling water that had long since gone flat.

The dress I wore shimmered faintly in the afternoon sun, a powder blue number that hugged the curve of my growing bump just enough to remind me it was there. It had arrived in a sleek black garment bag that morning, courtesy of Cassian, along with a short note in crisp handwriting: “Damian said you might need something suitable. Hope this works.”

It did. Technically. The