Clara Beaumont clung to her mother's arm as they entered the royal ballroom, her practiced smile firmly in place despite the anxiety churning in her stomach. The whispers had already started—subtle glances and hushed conversations that followed them like a toxic cloud.
"Stand up straight, Clara," Lady Beatrix hissed through her fixed smile. "Remember who you are."
"Who I am is precisely the problem," I muttered, adjusting my posture nonetheless. "Everyone here knows about Father's disgrace."
Lady Beatrix's fingers dug painfully into my arm. "Which is why securing Marquess Fairchild is more crucial than ever. He appears unswayed by the scandal, and his interest in you remains our greatest asset."
