Beneath the vast central hall tent, where crystal chandeliers glittered like constellations caught mid-fall, Mirabel Vexley stood very, very still—an impressive feat, considering she felt like she was being slowly flayed by a hundred curious stares. The air buzzed with expensive perfume, champagne fumes, and the kind of gossip that thrived on blood in the water. Every whisper felt amplified, sliding over her skin like a taunt.
Mirabel Vexley did not tremble. She was known for that. She was statuesque, commanding, a woman carved from silk and steel, always immaculate in pearls and couture. But now—now her perfectly composed world had betrayed her. A faint tremor betrayed her hands. Heat crept up her smooth brown cheeks, staining them with a flush she hadn't budgeted for. It was horrifying. If humiliation had a dress code, she was wearing it.
