Celeste:

  An hour.

  That’s all it took.

  One single, silk-threaded, scandal-blooded hour before whispers started curling like cigarette smoke through every ballroom, balcony, and private hallway of the estate.

  I heard the first murmur as I passed the smoking parlor.

  "Did you hear? Celeste practically mounted him in the marble bathroom—"

  Another voice: "Amara said there was moaning. Lots. Like, echoes-off-the-walls moaning."

  By the time I reached the east wing, someone was already saying Ethan had ripped the straps off my gown with his teeth.

  I stopped walking.

  Smiled.

  And tilted my head just slightly.

  “Amara,” I said under my breath, eyes narrowing.

  Of course.

  She would. Always the family’s sweet-faced gossip, all teeth behind the blush. It wasn’t enough that she witnessed power — she needed to possess it, even if it meant embellishing the truth until it dripped.

  Ethan:

  I caught the whispers on the balcony.

  Two junior associates — barely old enough to drink, not nearly old enough to understand who they were mocking — giggling like schoolgirls with knives.

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  “Apparently she was sitting on the sink,” one said.

  “And he had her wrist pinned,” the other added.

  I moved behind them quietly.

  They turned.

  Went pale.

  I didn’t say a word.

  Just took a long sip from my glass and walked away.

  Because the truth?

  The truth didn’t matter in a family like this.

  The performance did.

  Celeste:

  I found Amara in the garden, surrounded by sycophants and second-string heiresses. She was mid-sentence, cheeks flushed with the kind of pleasure that only came from lighting a fire and walking away.

  “—his hands were everywhere,” she was saying with a hushed, delighted voice. “And she didn’t even care they were being watched. Like they wanted it.”

  I stepped into the circle, silent.

  Amara saw me.

  Her face lit up — too quickly.

  “Cousin,” she purred, fake as her diamonds. “We were just talking about how adorable you and your husband are.”

  I smiled.

  “Oh? Which part?”

  Amara blinked. “Well, you know. Just… the intimacy. How deeply in love you clearly are.”

  “Mm,” I said, taking her champagne glass from her hand. “And where exactly did you learn to describe things you’ve never actually seen?”

  Amara:

  She smiled at me, but it was brittle now. Hairline cracks in her confidence.

  “I mean, you didn’t stop us from walking in…”

  Celeste leaned in, her voice like a whisper wrapped in silk and venom.

  Celeste:

  “That’s because I wanted you to know where you stand.”

  I let that hang there.

  Then added, “At the bottom.”

  She laughed, nervous, but her eyes flicked to the others — their silence was loud.

  I downed the champagne.

  Set the glass back in her hand.

  “Keep spreading stories, Amara,” I said sweetly. “But make sure they stay flattering. Because if I hear one more word about my husband’s mouth that isn’t true…”

  I stepped closer.

  “You’ll find out what I do to liars who borrow my name.”

  She didn’t speak.

  Didn’t breathe.

  Didn’t blink.

  I turned and walked away.

  Ethan:

  I was already waiting at the foot of the stairs when she reappeared — a breeze of silk and wrath and quiet power.

  “You handled it?” I asked.

  She smiled like she’d just buried someone.

  “Handled is a strong word.”

  “What would you call it?”

  Celeste threaded her arm through mine.

  “I reminded her who writes the narrative here.”

  I kissed her cheek.

  “Next time, we leave the door locked.”

  She smirked.

  “Next time, we leave it open on purpose.”