I could feel every single set of eyes on us.
Ashton was... well, Ashton.
He looked like a walking piece of art.
But not just beautiful.
Like one of those hyperrealistic 3D paintings of a cliff.
Stare too long and you start to feel the drop.
Me? I wasn’t bad either.
Maybe a little less angelic than him, but definitely more than presentable.
But I could tell it wasn’t the looks that had frozen the room.
It was the way I was linking arms with him—easy, intimate, completely unselfconscious.
Thanks to our multiple rehearsals (which, fine, had paid off), we didn’t look like a party fling.
We looked like the real thing.
I could practically see the thought bubbles forming above every head:
‘Isn’t that Mirabelle Vance?’
‘Wasn’t she engaged to Rhys Granger?’
‘Didn’t she cause a scene at the last Laurent event?’
‘How is she not blacklisted?’
But the main headline was clear:
‘What the hell is she doing with Ashton Laurent?’
The whispers started immediately.
We reached the centre of the room.
Ashton gave the crowd a slow once-over.
The kind of look that said: ‘What are you staring at? Mind your own business.’
It was as if he’d flicked a switch.
The air snapped back to life.
Then, after a second of stunned silence, the conversations resumed, but the topics had shifted.
Everyone went back to pretending they weren’t dying to know what was going on.
Eyes still flicked our way, though.
Then, from the edge of the room, a man stumbled over.
Handsome, if you squinted and ignored the wine bloat and under-eye bags.
His expression was all confusion and shock.
His mouth opened like it had forgotten how to form words.
‘You—you said you were bringing your wife. This is her?’
Ashton didn’t miss a beat. ‘That’s right.’
The man looked like someone had just unplugged his brain.
Everyone here knew I’d been engaged to Rhys Granger.
The Grangers had only just clawed back their wedding invite, and now—bam—I was here, allegedly married to Ashton Laurent, like it was no big deal.
I recognised the man, but to be sure, I turned and whispered, ‘Your father?’
Ashton nodded. ‘Reginald Laurent.’
Reginald’s hand went to his chest like he was physically restraining a heart attack.
His face was turning an alarming shade of crimson. ‘Ashton, how could you—how could you marry—’
I beamed at him and stuck out my hand. ‘Mr Laurent, it’s so lovely to meet you!’
Even his eyes stopped blinking.
Was he about to faint?
‘Mr Laurent,’ I said again, layering on my sweetest fake-innocent smile. ‘I brought gifts for everyone. I’ll have the driver bring them in shortly.’
His face turned an even deeper shade of maroon.
For a second, I honestly thought he might combust.
His Adam’s apple bobbed—up, down, up again—like he was trying to swallow a dozen questions at once, all of them jammed up in his throat like rush-hour traffic.
Ashton frowned. ‘Mirabelle put a lot of thought into those gifts. The least you could do is say thank you.’
Saying thank you to me was clearly the last thing on Reginald’s mind.
His face had gone from red to a deeply worrying purple. ‘I—I didn’t know...’
‘You didn’t prepare any gifts?’ Ashton cut in, voice sharp. ‘Even after I told you I was bringing my wife here today?’
He let that word hang for effect.
‘Cash will do. At least then I won’t have to worry about you handing Mira something useless. There are five of you in your family, so two million each should be a good start.’
Reginald’s eyes bulged.
I was half worried he was about to burst a blood vessel.
‘Five? And what do you mean “your family”?’ Reginald’s voice cracked like an old floorboard. ‘It’s six, including you. Aren’t you my son? Aren’t you supposed to be one of us?’
‘Now you’re calling me your son?’ Ashton arched an eyebrow. ‘Well then, since your son just got married, shouldn’t you be giving a wedding gift? And since you skipped the engagement one, let’s make up for lost time. Four million each should do it.’
Reginald was trembling.
Rage or shock—I couldn’t quite tell.
But I did know this: he wouldn’t make a scene.
Ashton had briefed me beforehand.
He’d already shuffled the more useless Laurent cronies off the main board at LGH, parking them in dusty little side offices.
Reginald was currently languishing at Laurent City Estates, a subsidiary where he could do the least possible damage.
And, if need be, he could be shuffled farther away, like Burkina Faso.
Ashton held all the strings now, and Reginald knew it.
While he stood there fumbling between outrage and submission, a woman and a younger man approached.
The woman was immaculate.
Expensive dress, impeccable hair, and a smile so sugary it almost matched my fake one.
She stepped forward like she’d been waiting for her moment all night.
‘Ashton’s right,’ she said smoothly. ‘As the in-laws, we should be the ones giving a proper gift to the new bride. Two million’s a bit modest, though. Lucien—Ashton’s cousin—just got engaged, and his parents gave the couple five million each. I’m sure Ashton’s wife is worth a lot more.’ Tʜe source of this ᴄontent ɪs novelFirｅ.net
Ashton didn’t even look at her.
Just let the silence stretch, cool and cutting.
From the way she clung to Reginald’s arm, I knew exactly who she was.
Gwendolyn Laurent. Reginald’s wife.
Her words were perfectly polite, and she even sounded like she was sticking up for me, but I’d met enough snakes in high heels to recognise the type.
The kind of woman who’d backstab you with one hand and give your shoulder a reassuring pat with the other.
No wonder Ashton hadn’t said much about her during our briefing.
All I knew was that she was the one who’d convinced Reginald to ship a barely-teenaged Ashton off to an overseas boarding school—alone, underprepared, and still too young to shave—while her own two sons were kept safe and coddled in Skyline City.
She reminded me of my mother, Caroline.
Different tactics, same poison.
And that smile—God, that smile.
It made me want to punch her square in the face.
I leaned towards Ashton as I beamed at Gwendolyn.
‘Aww, that’s so sweet of you. You’re really giving me five million? I don’t even know what to say.’