CHAPTER FOUR
The party had just begun.
Evie stood beside Miles, poised as ever—her posture regal, her expression unreadable. She was dressed in emerald satin, her curls gathered in a loose twist that framed her face with grace. People had begun to whisper, eyes flicking in their direction. A few curious glances. A few murmurs. But she played her part to perfection.
Miles had barely touched his champagne. He shifted, glancing around the ballroom with the slight unease of someone who knew a storm was coming but didn't know from which direction.
Evie noticed. "Nervous?" she murmured without turning to him.
"Not yet," he replied, voice low.
Then the Duke entered with a man dressed in sharp black—his aide perhaps—but no one noticed them.
Because she followed next.
Camila Alcott.
The chandelier light caught the shimmer of her pale gold gown as she descended the stairs with a confidence that never aged. Everything about her screamed polish—expensive, rehearsed, cold. Her blonde hair was swept up in a royal chignon. Her neckline dipped just enough to be scandalous, and her smirk was sharp enough to slice glass.
Arabella gasped beside them, her face lighting up. "Camila!" she squealed, darting off with the excitement of someone greeting a beloved older sister.
Evie blinked. "Who is that?" she asked, turning toward Miles—but he was no longer relaxed.
His hand clenched slightly at his side. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough for Evie to notice.
"She's... my ex," he muttered.
Evie followed Camila with her eyes as Arabella threw her arms around her. The scene looked almost rehearsed. "She's pretty," she observed simply.
Miles snorted. "And venomous."
Evie didn't reply. She watched as Camila tilted her head, greeting Arabella, laughing softly—but never once looking in their direction.
Then a voice interrupted them from the left.
"She's not half as stunning as the girl beside you, Miles."
A gentleman stood before them—tall, confident, maybe late twenties—with a navy tux that fit like it was tailored that morning. His eyes never left Evie.
Miles blinked. "Lord Sutherland?"
The man nodded but kept his gaze on Evie. "Forgive my boldness. I've met nearly every woman here tonight, but I don't believe I've had the honor."
Evie smiled politely, her hand extended. "Evie Sinclair."
"The Evie Sinclair?" he repeated, with a raised brow. "Now I understand why the air shifted."
Behind them, a few people turned. Word spread quickly. Miles Devereaux has a girlfriend. Not a cousin. Not a plus-one. A girlfriend. And one charming enough to catch the attention of Lord Sutherland, the most eligible bachelor of the season.
Lord Sutherland chatted easily, drawing Evie into light conversation. Miles was quiet, tense. Watching.
And then, as if conjured by tension itself—Camila approached.
She floated across the floor, all smiles and soft danger.
"Miles," she said, voice honey-laced poison. Her eyes swept him up and down like an old painting. "It's been far too long."
Before either of them could respond, her manicured hand rose to gently rest on Miles' chest—fingers splayed with possessive familiarity.
Evie saw red.
She stepped forward smoothly, slipping her hand around Miles' arm and tilting her head like she had every right to be there.
"Babe," she said sweetly, feigning surprise, "Oh! There you are."
Camila's eyes sharpened. "You must be Evie," she said, smiling like a knife. "I've heard... so much."
Evie smiled back. "Funny. I've heard nothing at all."
The air tightened between them. For a moment, even the string quartet seemed to quiet. Camila's smirk faltered—but only for a blink.
"Well, Miles and I go way back," she said smoothly, letting her hand linger a moment longer on his chest before finally pulling it away. "Don't we, darling?"
Miles didn't reply. His jaw was set, eyes flitting to Evie, who gave him the faintest, calculated smile. They were still playing a part—but now, she was enjoying it.
Camila leaned in, faux-whispering like it was an inside joke. "I have to say, Evie... those pearls. Simply stunning."
Evie's hand rose, brushing the delicate strand at her throat. "Aren't they?" She turned slightly, letting the light catch the soft glow. "They're from Miles. A gift."
Camila's brows arched high. "How thoughtful. I once had a pearl just like that. Given to me by someone very dear. I wonder if—"
"Oh," Evie interrupted, voice dipped in velvet and steel, "you must've dropped it when he realized you were no longer worth the string it came on."
Camila's smile shattered—just for a second. Her eyes flared, lips parted in disbelief, but Evie had already turned toward Miles, resting her hand against his arm again.
"Shall we?" she asked sweetly. "I think I saw Lady Penelope by the roses. You said she has that charming dachshund, didn't you?"
Miles didn't answer—he just followed her lead, guiding them away.
Camila stayed frozen, her lips twitching in rage as she stared after them.
Once they were out of earshot, Evie whispered, "Too much?"
Miles shook his head, a laugh almost escaping. "I've never seen her speechless. That was… masterful."
Evie grinned. "Well, I play to win."
The ballroom gave way to open glass doors that led into the garden—perfectly manicured, lined with lanterns, white roses, and ivy-covered trellises that glittered under the late afternoon sun. The royal garden party was now in full swing.
Staff in crisp uniforms glided by with trays of canapés and champagne. Classical music floated on the breeze, and nobles clustered in polished groups beneath silk canopies, laughing, gossiping, posing.
Evie took it all in.
It was beautiful—but beneath the charm, she could feel it again.
That hum of performance.
Of power plays.
Of lies.
"I feel like I'm walking into a play," she murmured.
"You are," Miles said quietly. "And some of these actors will eat you alive if you miss your line."
As they reached the main fountain—a marble centerpiece with cherubs frozen in dance—they were intercepted by the Duke's aide.
"Miss Sinclair," the man said with a polite bow, "His Grace requests a word."
Evie's stomach gave the faintest twist. She looked at Miles, who nodded once.
"You'll be fine," he murmured.
She followed the aide past the tulip paths and toward the west arch of the garden, where the Duke stood beneath a wisteria-draped pergola, hands folded behind his back.
The Duke broke away from the diplomat and turned to her with a genteel nod. "Miss Sinclair," he said, voice deep and smooth as aged scotch. "Would you walk with me a moment?"
Evie returned the nod with the grace she had been rehearsing in her head all evening. "Of course, Your Grace."
They strolled in measured silence through the pergola's shaded path, the scent of wisteria sweet on the summer air. Courtiers and guests drifted like finely dressed ghosts in the distance, but Evie felt the weight of this moment as if the entire garden had narrowed to just the two of them.
"I must commend you," the Duke began at last. "You handled Miss Alcott with... remarkable composure. Admirable, given the circumstances."
"Thank you, Your Grace," she replied evenly. "Though I didn't come here to create spectacle."
"No," he said, casting her a sidelong glance, "you came to do your job."
Evie hesitated, brows knitting. "Forgive me, Your Grace... but what job would that be?"
They stopped walking. The Duke turned to face her fully now, hands clasped behind his back, expression cool and unreadable.
"Your role," he said slowly, "as the future Duchess of Ashford."
Evie blinked.
For a second, the breeze seemed to vanish.
Evie blinked again, her smile holding—but only just.
For a moment, the breeze through the pergola seemed to still.
She met the Duke's gaze, head tilted slightly, lips parting into a soft, careful smile.
"Ah... of course," she said, voice velvet-smooth. "A marvelous role, Your Grace."
She stepped lightly forward, her hands clasped, her eyes steady.
"And if I may say so—you and the Duchess perform it to perfection."
The Duke's lips curved into a knowing smile, his gaze lingering just a heartbeat longer.
"A compliment wrapped in wit," he said, voice smooth as aged brandy. "You wear it well, Miss Evelyn. Not many would dare—fewer still would succeed."
He reached for a nearby tray and plucked two crystal flutes, offering one to her with a graceful gesture.
"Consider this your reward," he added lightly. "Now… enjoy the evening. The night still has much to unveil."
Evie took the glass with steady fingers, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.
Across the terrace, Miles shot her a discreet thumbs-up.
She caught it, her smile breaking free—quiet, genuine, and for once, effortless.