Chapter 10 Storm at the Garden Party

If the gala had been a performance, the garden party was an illusion.

Everything about the afternoon was curated to perfection. Crystal drink dispensers sparkled in the sun. Waiters floated across the manicured lawn with silver trays. Strings of orchids hung from the trellises. Laughter bubbled like champagne. A string quartet played Vivaldi near the fountain.

And at the center of it all stood Celeste Vaughn-radiant in ivory, smiling like sin dressed in silk.

Isabella arrived precisely fifteen minutes late.

Not too late to appear dismissive, but late enough to make a point.

She wore black-a stark contrast to the summer pastels and florals worn by the other women. Her hair was slicked back, her heels sharp, her gaze sharper.

Eyes turned.

Whispers rose like wind in the leaves.

> "She's not trying to blend in, is she?"

"The tension between those two... I could slice it with a butter knife."

Celeste turned as Isabella approached, her expression unreadable.

"You came," she said.

"I always show up when it matters."

Celeste's smile held. "That's not how I remember you."

"I've been busy remembering the things you want everyone to forget."

A flash of something passed over Celeste's face-there and gone.

They stood inches apart, smiles frozen, voices low enough to stay beneath the social radar. But the war was audible between their words.

"Walk with me," Celeste said suddenly.

Isabella followed, heels crunching against the gravel path that curved along the rose gardens. The string quartet faded behind them. Guests watched discreetly from under parasols and champagne flutes.

"You're creating a spectacle," Celeste said once they were out of earshot.

"No, Celeste," Isabella replied. "You are. I just showed up."

"I don't know what you think you've found-"

"I know what I've found."

Celeste stopped walking.

"Say it," she said. "If you're so sure."

Isabella didn't hesitate. "You manipulated Dad's board. You pushed contracts through without consent. You buried financial transactions and sealed the study before the ink dried on his death certificate."

Celeste's smile was gone now.

"You've been digging," she said. "That's dangerous."

"No," Isabella said. "What's dangerous is thinking no one would ever notice."

They stood in the open, roses blooming around them, the air too still.

Celeste's voice dropped to a warning. "You don't have proof."

"I have enough," Isabella said. "And Damien has the rest."

That was the crack.

Celeste's expression hardened. "You're working with him?"

"I'm reclaiming the truth. No matter who it hurts."

Celeste looked at her long and cold.

Then, with deliberate grace, she turned back toward the party.

"Enjoy the flowers," she said over her shoulder. "They'll be dead by next week."

Isabella remained standing among the roses, her breath shallow.

The wind stirred just slightly, shifting the scent in the air.

And then-crack.

The clouds split overhead without warning.

Rain fell, sudden and heavy, like the sky had been holding its breath for too long.

Guests shrieked and scrambled beneath awnings and canopies.

Isabella didn't move.

She stood in the garden, soaked within seconds, hair plastered to her skin, mascara smudging like warpaint. And yet-she looked utterly unmoved.

Celeste turned at the edge of the terrace and saw her sister standing alone in the storm.

For a moment, something unreadable passed between them.

Not hatred. Not victory.

Just the ghost of a promise once made.

And now-broken.