Chapter 2

The Blakely Estate was a fortress of old money and quiet power, nestled in the Garden District. The moment my cab pulled through the iron gates, the chaos of the airport faded away. The staff, who had known Andrew since he was a boy, greeted me with warmth and respect.

"Welcome home, Mrs. Blakely."

"It's so good to have you back, ma'am."

The contrast between their deference and the contempt I' d faced from Ryan was jarring. Here, I was the lady of the house. Out there, I was a nobody he could push to the ground.

I spent the rest of the day resting, the dull ache in my abdomen a constant reminder of the fall. The doctor Andrew insisted I see had confirmed the baby and I were fine, but ordered me to take it easy.

The next evening was the gala. Mr. Blakely Sr.' s 80th birthday party, held in the grand ballroom of the family's flagship hotel-the very hotel where Ryan worked.

I chose my dress carefully: a deep emerald green silk gown that skimmed my body, subtly hinting at my pregnancy without revealing it. The bespoke locket rested against my collarbone. I felt powerful, serene. I was no longer the girl Ryan had left behind. I was a Blakely.

As I descended the grand staircase into the ballroom, all eyes turned to me. The room was a glittering sea of New Orleans' elite. I scanned the crowd, my gaze sweeping past the politicians and business moguls, landing on the staff by the entrance.

And there he was. Ryan, in his crisp valet uniform, looking important as he directed his team.

His eyes found me. His jaw tightened. He saw me not as a guest, but as an intruder. He clearly thought I had snuck in, a desperate attempt to crash the party and get his attention.

He strode over, intercepting me at the bottom of the stairs. His face was a mask of irritation.

"Jocelyn, what the hell are you doing here?" he hissed, keeping his voice low. "This is a private event. You can't just walk in."

I said nothing. I simply looked past him, toward the head table where Mr. Blakely Sr. was holding court.

Ryan mistook my silence for shame. "Look," he sighed, adopting a tone of magnanimous pity. "Since you're here, I can probably get you a seat. In the back. In a corner. But you have to behave. No drama."

I finally turned my gaze to him. "That won't be necessary, Ryan."

I started to walk away, but he grabbed my arm. "Don't you walk away from me. Who do you think you are?"

I pulled my arm from his grasp and continued toward the head table. I was carrying my gift for Andrew' s grandfather, a project I had poured my heart into for months. It was an elaborate sugar sculpture, a breathtakingly detailed replica of a Louisiana bayou scene, complete with delicate sugar-spun moss hanging from cypress trees and a shimmering, pulled-sugar water surface.

As I approached the main table, a murmur went through the crowd. They recognized me. Not as Jocelyn Fuller, but as the mysterious Mrs. Blakely, Andrew's Parisian wife, who was making her first official appearance in New Orleans society.

But Ryan and his crew only saw what they wanted to see.

Sabrina, who had been lurking nearby, rushed forward. She saw the sculpture in my hands, and her face twisted into a sneer.

"Oh, look everyone!" she announced loudly, drawing attention. "The little charity case brought a gift. How tacky. Did you make that in your dirty little kitchen? You're going to embarrass the Blakelys with this cheap piece of trash!"

Her voice was sharp, cutting through the polite chatter of the ballroom. People were starting to stare.