Godfrey Whitmore crossed the hall with the confidence of a man who had never been refused.
He stopped before Catherine and offered a flawless bow: polished, aristocratic, practiced to perfection.
In the distance, Sebastian nudged Maximilian with his elbow.
"Look there. Gabriel’s pride is trying to take what’s yours again."
Maximilian didn’t even turn.
He had known the mont his grandfather saw Catherine beside him that this would happen. Old n like Gabriel never missed an opportunity—they manufactured them.
And still, he wasn’t worried. Not even a little.
Because he knew Catherine.
"Watch her," Maximilian said calmly.
—
"Good evening," Godfrey said smoothly. "Godfrey Whitmore."
His gaze swept over Catherine: not leering, not crude, but slow enough to be intentional. A asured appraisal. As if she were sothing to be evaluated... and claid.
"I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced," he continued, already extending his hand. "Would you care to dance?"
It wasn’t a question.
Catherine let her gaze drop to his hand for a mont before lifting it to his face. Her smile was pleasant. Courteous.
asured.
"I’m afraid I don’t dance with strangers," she said lightly.
Of course, she knew exactly who he was.
Maximilian’s cousin. Gabriel Whitmore’s favored piece on the board. The man the old patriarch hoped would secure the family’s future.
And from what Catherine had learned... from quiet whispers, from won who warned other won, in that forum...
A sleazy snake.
The kind who said whatever was needed, promised whatever worked, and bit when it suited him.
She wanted a legacy na, yes. But not one that would coil around her ankles and poison her slowly.
If she ever chose the Whitmore na, she’d rather take the known evil—Maximilian—than this polished serpent pretending to be a gentleman.
Godfrey’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it sharpened.
"Then it’s fortunate I’m no stranger here," he replied smoothly. "And you’re seated among family friends. That makes us... close enough."
A pause.
Then he took a deliberate step closer: subtle, but unmistakable.
"You must be finding tonight overwhelming," he added, lowering his voice just enough to sound considerate. "These events can be difficult when one is... newly introduced to our circle."
The implication settled like dust.
New money. Outsider. Grateful for attention.
An easy mark.
Around them, conversations slowed. Curious gazes angled closer, pretending not to listen.
Catherine tilted her head slightly, as if considering his words.
Then she smiled again.
"Is that how you welco guests here?" she asked softly. "By reminding them they’re temporary?"
Godfrey blinked.
Just once.
He hadn’t expected that bite from her.
She didn’t give him ti to recover.
"I was under the impression," Catherine continued, voice calm and unhurried, "that legacy was asured by manners. Not by how quickly one tries to claim what hasn’t been offered."
The air shifted.
Godfrey’s hand was still extended.
Untaken.
A faint flush crept up his neck, though his smile remained carefully intact.
"I ant no offense," he said smoothly. "I was rely offering guidance."
"Of course," Catherine replied pleasantly.
Then, almost thoughtfully, she added,
"But guidance is usually requested. What you offered felt more like instruction."
A ripple moved through the surrounding guests: subtle, sharp, unavoidable.
Godfrey straightened, a hint of steel slipping into his voice. "Surely a dance isn’t too much to ask."
Catherine t his eyes fully this ti.
"No," she said gently. "But assuming it is... tells everything I need to know."
Silence.
Not the awkward kind.
The kind that rang.
Then Catherine gave him a small, graceful nod... the sort reserved for people one was finished with.
"Enjoy your evening, Mr. Whitmore."
She turned away.
Godfrey stood there, hand still half-raised, smile frozen in place, as whispers blood like wildfire around him.
And across the room...
Maximilian stopped laughing.
Because in that mont, he understood sothing very clearly.
Catherine hadn’t co here to be chosen.
She had co here to decide.
And her money... her power... gave her every right to do so.
---
anwhile, a pair of eyes had been on Catherine the entire evening.
Miranda Presly—the editor-in-chief of the most influential fashion magazine in the world—watched from the shadows of the hall, her gaze sharp and unblinking.
Catherine crossed the floor.
Heads turned like compass needles drawn to true north. For a single heartbeat, the soft rustle of satin overtook the orchestra itself, silk whispering where violins should have ruled.
Catherine didn’t seem to notice.
Miranda’s eyes glinted.
"See how she moves?" she murmured. "That’s intent, Leenie. She’s learned softness without surrender." Her lips curved faintly. "I can’t believe Sophia kept her off the runway for this long."
Leenie’s voice thinned as she replied, clipped with restraint. "She’s twenty-one. And she has two doctorates in neurobiology."
Miranda lifted her glass, still watching Catherine. "Impressive," she said easily. "And already the most composed woman in the room."
A pause.
Then, quieter, almost to herself, she whispered. "She’s decided to be seen. On her own terms." Miranda smiled slowly.
She finally turned her head, studying her sister with keen amusent. "Now tell , dearest Leenie... are you hating her simply because it’s convenient?" Her brow lifted. "You did see how she handled Godfrey."
"Ugh!" Leenie grunted, draining her red wine. "My son... he’s never spoken to like that before."
Miranda chuckled, soft and knowing. "So that’s the reason." She sighed theatrically. "Max was always a cat, you know. ant to roam. To follow his heart. Never to be tad."
She leaned closer and nudged her sister lightly with her shoulder.
"Tell ," she coaxed. "You’re impressed with her. Aren’t you?"
Leenie pouted, adjusted her velvet dress with unnecessary care... then sighed.
"She’s not bad," she admitted, smiling despite herself. "But I still hate her."
Miranda only laughed.
—
"Co," Maximilian said to Sebastian. "Let introduce you to her properly."
Sebastian nodded. "That’s long overdue."
They crossed the hall together. Catherine was now surrounded by a cluster of young won, smiling too brightly, asuring too carefully. Assessing their competition.
On the way, Maximilian caught sight of Godfrey.
Still standing there.
Still faintly stunned by the revelation that a woman had not only refused him but had done so without apology.
Maximilian couldn’t help himself.
He stopped and pressed a firm hand down on his cousin’s shoulder. Godfrey was tall, but not as tall as Maximilian. And he hated it when Maximilian did this.
Which was precisely why Maximilian did.
"So people have the discernnt to see beyond surface charm," Maximilian said mildly. "You should stay away from them." His lips curved. "But you’ll learn, Serpentine."
He didn’t wait for a response.
Sebastian followed behind, biting down hard on his laughter.
Maximilian didn’t make it far.
His path was blocked.
Gabriel Whitmore stood before him, eyes cold, his expression a familiar mix of disappointnt and contempt.
"Still running with this Remington runt?" his grandfather asked, voice deep and deliberately cutting. "You’d do better to use your charm for sothing useful—rather than humiliating your own family."
His gaze flicked dismissively.
"Good with words. Empty in deeds. What a wastrel."
The word landed like blade.
Maximilian’s fists clenched at his sides.
Because just beyond his grandfather’s shoulder...
Catherine...
She would have heard every word.
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