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(Evelyn's POV)
The letter sat on the table like a small, elegant insult.
A single sheet of thick, cream-colored paper embossed with Vale Industries' understated crest.
"Mr. Vale appreciates the courtesy extended by the Rothwell family. However, he has no interest in pursuing any marital arrangement at this time."
No signature flourish. No softened phrasing to ease the blow. Just a curt refusal in perfect, precise ink.
It shouldn't have affected me — it wasn't my proposal.
But my heart thudded dully as Father read it a second time, jaw tightening.
Clara's lips pressed into a faint line. She placed the letter on the table with deliberate care, like she was setting down a loaded pistol.
"This isn't the end of it," she said quietly. Not to me. Not even to Father. More like she was telling herself.
Father leaned back in his chair. "Clara—"
"No," she said firmly. "If he dismissed the idea so quickly, then he didn't understand what was on offer. It's a matter of presentation."
Mother, seated beside her, folded her hands delicately. "He understood perfectly, darling."
Clara's gaze didn't waver. "Then he needs to see it for himself. Invite him to dinner. Let him look at us, speak to us. Let him realize this is a match worth considering."
I swallowed hard. "Clara—"
Her eyes flicked to me, cool and steady. "This doesn't concern you, Evelyn."
The words landed like a slap.
The rest of breakfast passed under a suffocating quiet. The clink of silverware and the occasional creak of the floorboards were the only sounds. Clara ate with slow precision, back straight, her mind clearly moving several steps ahead.
I kept my gaze on my plate, willing the heat in my chest to subside. Damien had refused her. That should have been enough to end it. But Clara was never one to let go of a prize once she'd set her sights on it — even if the prize wasn't hers to begin with.
The afternoon light in the sunroom was soft and golden, catching in the curls of Clara's hair as she sat leafing through a glossy society magazine. She didn't look up when I entered.
"You went to Father about him?" I asked.
Her lips curved faintly. "I sent a proposal. Father supported it."
"You barely know him."
"That's irrelevant." She turned a page. "What matters is his position, his influence, his potential." She let her gaze flick to mine, assessing. "And yes… his looks don't hurt."
I felt my jaw tighten. "He's not interested."
Clara smiled like a cat who'd spotted prey. "Everyone's interested, Evelyn. Sometimes they just need the right reason."
"And if he still says no?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
Her eyes gleamed with quiet malice. "Then perhaps Mother and Father should revisit the idea of you and Justin. He's always adored you. A childhood friend. A perfectly respectable match."
The message slid in under my skin like a thin, cold blade: If I can't have him, I'll make sure you don't either.
The dinner invitation went out that evening. By morning, the reply arrived.
I heard Father reading it aloud in his study.
"Mr. Vale accepts the invitation for dinner on Thursday at 7:00 p.m."
My pulse spiked. He was coming. He'd refused the marriage proposal without hesitation — but he'd agreed to face the Rothwells directly.
Which meant he knew exactly what Clara was trying to do… and had chosen to walk into it.
Thursday arrived with the slow inevitability of a tide rolling in. The household was electric with preparation — crystal polished, silverware buffed to a mirror shine, the scent of rosemary and seared lamb drifting in from the kitchen.
I spent the day in a quiet, anxious haze, every clock tick feeling louder than usual. By the time I dressed for dinner, my hands were unsteady.
I chose a deep emerald gown, the silk catching light with each movement, my hair drawn back in a soft twist. Clara, of course, was dazzling — ivory satin with a neckline that hinted at scandal without crossing the line.
She caught me in the hall as we made our way downstairs. Her perfume — sharp jasmine — drifted between us.
"Try not to glare at him all night," she said smoothly. "It would be terribly obvious."
I said nothing. She smirked like she'd already won something.
At precisely seven o'clock, the sound of a powerful engine rolled up the drive.
The front door opened, and Damien stepped inside.
He was in black — tailored to perfection, a crisp white shirt open at the collar. No tie. No attempt to conform to the Rothwell brand of formality. The storm outside had left a faint sheen on his hair, and the cool air followed him in.
He took in the entrance hall, the gleam of the chandelier, the waiting butler… and then his eyes found mine.
That slow, deliberate smile. The one that made my knees feel like they'd forgotten how to function.
"Miss Rothwell," he said in that smooth, velvet voice.
He didn't look at Clara first. He didn't even glance at my parents. His gaze stayed locked on me as he handed the butler his coat.
Clara stepped forward with a graceful smile. "Mr. Vale. Thank you for coming."
Finally, Damien's eyes shifted to her. They were polite. Detached. "Miss Rothwell." A faint incline of the head.
Father emerged from the drawing room, hand extended. "Adrian. Welcome."
"Henry," Damien replied evenly, shaking his hand.
As the pleasantries passed, I saw Clara's fingers tighten slightly on the stem of her wine glass. She'd expected charm. Engagement. Maybe even flirtation. What she got was calculated distance.
Dinner was an exquisite affair — roast lamb with a rosemary crust, saffron potatoes, delicately dressed greens — but the real feast was the verbal sparring at the table.
Clara steered every topic toward herself, highlighting her charity work, her travels, her "vision for the future." Damien responded with the same level of interest one might offer a weather report. Not rude, not dismissive — simply… uninvested.
But when I spoke — briefly, cautiously — his attention sharpened. Every word I said, he seemed to weigh.
By dessert, the tension had shifted. Clara knew it. I knew it. And Damien… Damien was in control of the entire table without lifting a finger.
When coffee was served, Clara tried one last direct strike. "Mr. Vale, I imagine you've had time to reconsider our earlier correspondence."
Damien set his cup down, meeting her gaze with a faint, unreadable smile. "I haven't reconsidered."
The silence that followed was palpable.
Then, slowly, he turned his head — and looked at me.