Chapter 2

Kallie POV

The day of the gala arrived, a whirlwind of false smiles and whispered judgments. The grand ballroom shimmered under crystal chandeliers, a stage set for the night' s impending drama.

Just as Frederick Griffin was about to make his entrance, Austen and Dennie finally appeared. Frederick, ever the stickler for punctuality, had already left the receiving line. Their tardiness was a deliberate slight, a calculated power play.

Dennie's cheeks were flushed, a little too rosy, and Austen's starched collar barely concealed a faint, tell-tale bruise on his neck.

The message was clear, scandalous, and utterly public. Everyone saw it. Everyone understood.

My past self would have felt a crushing wave of humiliation, a hot flush spreading across my face. I would have felt the sting of betrayal, the sickening lurch in my stomach. I would have run to the ladies' room, locking myself in a stall, tears streaming down my face as I confronted the ugly truth of their affair. I would have questioned their loyalty, their decency, my own worth.

But the Kallie standing there now was different. I simply allowed my gaze to drift over them for a brief, fleeting second. Then I turned my head, resuming my conversation with an elderly socialite about the merits of vintage champagne.

Austen, however, had noticed. His eyes, sharp and proprietary, followed my fleeting glance. He immediately shifted his body, subtly shielding Dennie from my view.

My silence, my utter lack of emotional reaction, clearly infuriated him. He expected a scene, an outburst, the familiar desperation that he had come to rely on.

He approached me, a forced, brittle smile plastered on his face. "So, Kallie," he said, his voice tight, "playing the magnanimous fiancée, are we? Trying to prove you're worthy of the Griffin name by ignoring my... indiscretions?"

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a condescending whisper. "Don't bother. This is just a formality. You know I'll be named managing partner tonight. I need a compliant wife, not a hysterical one. Your silence means nothing to me."

Dennie, ever the cunning actress, nestled deeper into Austen's side. She offered me a simpering, fake apology, her eyes, however, gleaming with triumph. "Oh, Kallie, I'm so terribly sorry we're late. Austen was just... helping me calm my nerves. He's so wonderfully attentive."

She batted her eyelashes, a delicate tremor in her voice. "We just lost track of time. It was all so... intense."

The double meaning hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. A wave of titters and whispers spread through the room. Eyes darted between Dennie, Austen, and me, calculating, judging.

My past self would have felt a surge of white-hot rage. I would have screamed, perhaps even slapped Dennie, making a spectacle of myself. Austen would have pulled her protectively into his arms, denouncing me as a "crazy, jealous woman," further solidifying their narrative of my instability.

But this Kallie merely took a slow, deliberate sip of my champagne. The bubbles tickled my tongue, a small, internal rebellion against the chaos.

"It's quite alright, Dennie," I said, my voice perfectly level. "The celebration is for Frederick. Your absence wasn't exactly a tragedy. In fact, it was barely noticed."

I paused, letting my gaze linger meaningfully on Austen's collar. "But perhaps, Austen, you should ask Dennie to wipe the lipstick from your collar. It's a rather vibrant shade of crimson. And it matches her dress perfectly."

"Such a vulgar display," I concluded, a cool disdain in my voice.

Austen's face, already flushed with indignation, darkened further. He had clearly expected tears, anger, anything but this icy indifference, this surgical strike at his carefully constructed facade. He wanted me to be his puppet, dancing to his tune of jealousy and despair. He wanted me to prove I was still his devoted follower. Instead, I saw him as a stain, an embarrassing smudge on an otherwise perfect evening.

He tightened his grip on Dennie's waist, his knuckles white. "Watch your words, Kallie," he hissed, his eyes blazing. "Your position here is only due to Frederick's passing fancy. He might change his mind if you continue to be so... ungracious. You should be grateful Dennie even bothered to show her face."

I let out a soft, almost imperceptible laugh. "Grateful for what, Austen?" I asked, my voice rising just enough to carry to the nearby clusters of guests. "Grateful she occupied your time so thoroughly that you forgot your manners? Perhaps you and Dennie should go tidy yourselves up. You're both quite pathetic."

With that, I turned my back on them, gracefully joining a group of older guests, leaving Austen fuming in my wake. I could feel his furious gaze like a physical weight on my back, the impotent rage of a man who had completely lost control of a situation he always assumed he governed. The power dynamic had irrevocably shifted, and he hated it.

For the rest of the evening, I played the perfect hostess, charming the younger generation of Griffins with easy laughter and intelligent conversation. I watched as Austen, isolated and seething, brooded in a corner, waiting. Waiting for me to break, to return to the familiar role of the pathetic, heartbroken girl.

But that girl was gone. Buried.

As midnight approached, the atmosphere in the ballroom crackled with tension. The moment of decision was drawing near.

Austen smoothed his hair, a smug, triumphant smile returning to his face. He truly believed he had won. He was convinced I would choose him. He strode to the very center of the room, puffing out his chest, ready for his coronation.

A hush fell over the assembled guests. All eyes turned to Frederick Griffin, and then to me.