The annual Blackwood Foundation gala was the pinnacle of the Los Angeles social season, a spectacle of almost obscene opulence where the city's elite gathered not just to see, but to be seen, to network under the guise of philanthropy. The Blackwood estate had been transformed for the event. The sprawling lawns were dotted with elegant tables draped in ivory linen, lit by countless flickering candles and delicate fairy lights strung through the ancient oak trees. A string quartet played something soft and classical, the notes weaving through the murmur of polished conversation and the clinking of crystal champagne flutes. The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and expensive perfume.
Chloe stood at the periphery of the main crowd, feeling like an exhibit in a museum of someone else's life. Her gown, a stunning emerald silk that had been selected for her by a stylist, felt like a costume. Every smile she offered to passing guests was a practiced, brittle thing. She was playing a part, the role of Mrs. Lucas Blackwood, and she was painfully aware of being an understudy in a part written for someone else. Her eyes, as they had been all evening, were drawn to Lucas. He held court at the center of a group of powerful-looking men, including the formidable Charles Henderson, Jake's father. Lucas was in his element—commanding, charismatic, a king surveying his domain. He hadn't looked at her once in the past hour.
And then there was Sophia. Sophia Miller, the woman everyone assumed should be standing where Chloe was. The "right kind of woman" for a man like Lucas Blackwood. Sophia moved through the crowd with an effortless grace, a vision in a sheath of icy blue that made Chloe feel gauche by comparison. She was the perfect hostess, touching an arm here, sharing a laugh there, her presence a constant, subtle reminder of Chloe's inadequacy. Every so often, Sophia's gaze would drift to Chloe, and a faint, knowing smile would touch her perfectly painted lips. It was not a friendly smile.
A wave of nausea, unrelated to her pregnancy, rolled through Chloe. She felt exposed, a fraud about to be called out on stage. The carefully constructed façade of her marriage felt paper-thin tonight, ready to tear at the slightest pressure. She wished she could slip away, retreat to the quiet of her room, but she was trapped by the expectations of her position and the watchful eyes of the very people who judged her most harshly.
The gentle music faded, and the string quartet stilled. The estate's major-domo stepped onto the small, temporary stage that had been erected near the terrace, tapping a microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention, please. A few words from the chair of the Blackwood Foundation, Ms. Sophia Miller."
A polite smattering of applause rippled through the crowd. Sophia glided onto the stage, a vision of cool elegance, her smile radiant and assured under the soft spotlights. She thanked the donors, praised the foundation's work, her voice a smooth, cultured instrument that held the audience in thrall. Chloe's sense of dread intensified. This was it. The moment of execution.
"And of course," Sophia said, her smile widening, "none of this would be possible without the vision and… unwavering support of the Blackwood family." Her eyes scanned the crowd, seemingly landing on everyone and no one. "Lucas, your leadership is, as always, an inspiration." She paused, letting the applause for Lucas subside. Her gaze then shifted, deliberately, and landed squarely on Chloe. The spotlight seemed to follow her gaze, pinning Chloe in its beam. A hundred pairs of eyes turned to look at her.
"And we mustn't forget the woman behind the man," Sophia purred, her voice dripping with a saccharine sweetness that didn't reach her eyes. "Our dear Chloe." The pause after her name was heavy with unspoken judgment. "Chloe, darling, do stand up. Let everyone see you."
A hot flush of humiliation crawled up Chloe's neck. She felt paralyzed. This was a trap. Reluctantly, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace, she rose slightly from her chair, a gesture of acknowledgment.
Sophia's smile never wavered. "We're all so… fascinated by you, my dear. It's not every day that our world is graced by such a… unique presence. You've brought a certain… freshness to the Blackwood name." The words were carefully chosen, each one a tiny, venomous dart. Unique. Freshness.Code for outsider. Not one of us.
A few titters of laughter came from the crowd, quickly stifled. Chloe's cheeks burned. She could feel the speculative, pitying, and outright mocking stares. She was being presented as Lucas's eccentric, questionable choice—a curiosity, not a partner.
"We do hope you're… settling in well," Sophia continued, her head tilted. "It must be such a monumental adjustment. The pressure of it all… well, I'm sure we can't even imagine. But you carry it with such… quiet dignity." The implication was clear: Chloe was struggling, out of her depth, barely holding on. The narrative of the unstable, overwhelmed wife was being written in real time, in front of everyone who mattered.
Chloe's eyes darted to Lucas. He was standing perfectly still, his face an unreadable mask. He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at Sophia, his expression giving nothing away. No anger. No defense. No support. Just… nothing. His silence was a louder betrayal than any words Sophia could have spoken. In that moment, any lingering hope that he saw her as anything more than a temporary, inconvenient obligation evaporated, leaving a cold, hollow ache in its place.
The applause that followed Sophia's "tribute" was polite, perfunctory. Chloe sank back into her chair, her legs trembling so violently she feared they would give way. The rest of the speeches were a blur. The hum of conversation returned, but now it felt different. She was convinced every whisper was about her, every glance a judgment. The walls of the gilded cage were no longer just bars; they were made of mirrors, reflecting back a distorted image of herself that she didn't recognize—a pitiful, humiliated figure.
She couldn't stay. She couldn't breathe. Muttering a vague excuse to the elderly industrialist seated next to her, she stood and walked away from the table, her movements stiff and robotic. She didn't look at anyone, focusing only on the path to the French doors leading back into the main house. The distance felt like a mile. She could feel Lucas's gaze on her back now, a heavy, disapproving weight, but she didn't turn around.
Once inside the relative quiet of the empty library, away from the prying eyes, the dam broke. Sobs, harsh and ragged, tore from her throat. She stumbled toward the fireplace, gripping the mantelpiece for support, her shoulders shaking. The public evisceration was bad enough, but Lucas's complicity—his utter, cold indifference—was what had shattered her. He had allowed it to happen. He had chosen, in that crucial moment, to side with the world that rejected her.
The soft click of the door closing made her freeze. She didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The air in the room grew cold.
"What," Lucas's voice cut through the silence, low and dangerously calm, "was that?"
Chloe wiped angrily at her tears, turning to face him. The mask of the gracious host was gone from his face, replaced by a look of cold fury. "What was what, Lucas?" she shot back, her voice thick with tears. "My public flogging? Or your silence while it happened?"
"Your little performance out there," he said, taking a step closer, his eyes blazing. "The trembling lower lip, the dramatic exit. You made a scene, Chloe. At my event."
"Imade a scene?" A disbelieving, hysterical laugh escaped her. "Sophia just stripped me bare in front of everyone you know, and you're angry at me? She humiliated me!"
"She made an observation," he retorted, his voice like ice. "You chose to interpret it as humiliation. You wear your insecurity like a banner, Chloe. It's unattractive. And in our world, it's a liability."
"Ourworld?" she cried, the pain and fury finally boiling over. "This isn't my world, Lucas! It's yours! And it's hers! I'm just the temporary resident you occasionally have to acknowledge! You stood there and let her do it! You didn't say a word!"
"What did you expect me to do?" he demanded, his patience clearly at an end. "Cause a scene? Disrupt the entire gala to defend your honor? This is business. Perception is everything. Your inability to handle a little polite scrutiny is the problem, not Sophia's comments."
"Polite scrutiny?" she repeated, her voice dropping to a whisper laced with venom. "She painted me as a fragile, unstable outsider, and you endorsed it with your silence. You were supposed to be my husband."
The word—husband—hung in the air between them, a pathetic, hollow echo.
Lucas's expression hardened further. "Then perhaps you should start acting like a wife worthy of the title. This isn't a fairy tale, Chloe. It's a partnership. And tonight, you failed to hold up your end. You embarrassed yourself, and by extension, you embarrassed me."
The finality in his tone was the killing blow. He wasn't just disappointed; he was disgusted. In his eyes, she was the problem. Her feelings, her pain, were an inconvenient, messy distraction from the real business of being Lucas Blackwood.
She looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw a stranger. A cold, ruthless man who valued control and appearance above all else. The last fragile thread of hope that things could be different, that he could ever see her as an equal, much less love her, snapped.
Without another word, she turned and walked out of the library, leaving him standing there. This time, she didn't go to her room. She went straight to the foyer, grabbed her purse, and walked out the front door into the cool night air. She had no destination, only a desperate need to be anywhere but there. The public humiliation was complete, but the private one, the one that truly broke her, had just happened in the silent, book-lined room behind her. The cage door had been unlocked not by an act of kindness, but by an act of profound betrayal. And for the first time, walking away didn't feel like defeat; it felt like the only option left.