Vivienne
Isabella stood beside him, her platinum blonde hair shimmering under the gold chandeliers.
While I looked like a servant, she looked like the perfect heiress—someone far more befitting for Roman. But I didn't let that affect me, after all I was Roman's Legal wife.
A spark of courage flickered in my chest, knowing that I also deserved to stand by his side.
Tonight was supposed to be our anniversary celebration, and even if I was wearing a three-year-old dress, I was still his wife. Without me, this hall wouldn't look half as beautiful as it did.
I began to walk toward them, smoothing the midnight-blue silk over my hips, but I hadn't made it five steps before a sharp figure intercepted me.
It was Phoebe. She was dressed in a flashy, over-the-top gown encrusted with gold sequins that seemed to scream for attention. Her eyes dragged over my old dress with immediate, visible disdain.
"There you are," she snapped, not even acknowledging my transformation. "Don't just stand there gawking. Bring the vintage reserve—the best wine we have. I need a fresh bottle for our table immediately."
I paused, looking around the room. There were dozens of professional servers in uniforms gliding through the crowd, each carrying silver trays. Some even had empty trays, and I wondered why she specifically needed me.
"Phoebe," I said softly, "there are plenty of servers working the floor. You could send one of them. I was going to go speak to Roman…"
Phoebe's face contorted into anger, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "Are you complaining?" she hissed, stepping closer so those around us wouldn't hear her voice. "After all the money my son spends to keep a roof over your head, you dare to talk back? You are here to be useful, Vivienne. You should know your place, and right now, your place is serving this family—not embarrassing Roman by hovering around him in that pathetic, dated rag you are wearing."
I wanted to scream into her face, letting her know she was the reason I was wearing this "rag," but I held myself back. I smiled like a fool, looking over her shoulder at Roman. He was laughing at something Isabella had said and didn't even glance my way.
"I am sorry for not knowing my place," I whispered, the familiar weight of debt pressing down on my shoulders. "I'll go get it."
I turned away, walking toward the service entrance to fetch the wine, once again forced into the role of a servant at my own celebration.
I moved through the crowd with the weight of Phoebe's words resounding in my ears.
When I finally obtained the wine, I poured it into ten glasses, filling them with deep, ruby-red liquid, and began walking back toward their table.
I tried to reclaim a shred of dignity, reminding myself that I was Roman's wife. I paused for a split second to straighten the silk of my midnight-blue dress with my free hand, lifting my chin. I told myself that once I delivered these, I would demand a moment of Roman's time.
As I approached the table, I saw them all together: Phoebe, Cassandra, and Adrian, all gathered around Roman and Isabella like a royal court.
I caught Adrian's eye first. He didn't look away; instead, a slow, malicious grin spread across his face.
I felt a cold shiver of dread, but I was already mid-step.
In a flash, Adrian's leg shot out across the aisle. I tried to swerve, but it was too late. My foot caught his heavy dress shoe, and the world tilted.
"Oh!" I gasped as the tray slid from my grip. I went down hard, my knees hitting the marble floor with a painful thud, the momentum sending me crashing forward into the edge of the table.
The glasses shattered upon impact, the sound of breaking crystal echoing through the area. The vintage red wine erupted in a violent spray, splashing across the pristine white linens and the expensive centerpieces.
A sharp, ear-piercing shriek tore through the hall.
"My dress! My God, my dress!"
Isabella Sinclair was on her feet, her face contorted in a mask of pure horror. The front of her pale designer gown was now saturated with dark, blood-red stains. The wine dripped from the delicate fabric, ruining a dress that likely cost more than everything I owned.
The laughter that usually followed my falls didn't come this time. Instead, a heavy, suffocating silence fell over the guests as they turned to witness the disaster.
I looked up from the floor, my palms bleeding from a shard of glass, and met Roman's eyes. He wasn't reaching out to help me up. Instead, he was glaring at me because I had ruined his celebration.
I scrambled to my knees quickly, ignoring the sharp sting of the glass shards in my palms as I looked up in terror. "I'm so sorry! It was an accident! I—I tripped—"
I reached out instinctively with a trembling hand, grabbing a cloth napkin to try and help blot the wine from Isabella's gown. But before my fingers could even graze the fabric, a hand hit me hard across the face.
The force of the blow was so sudden and violent that my head snapped to the side. The sound of skin meeting skin cracked through the hall, silencing the whispers of the nearby guests. My cheek burned with an instant, throbbing heat, and I felt the metallic tang of blood as my lip split against my teeth.
"You clumsy, useless brat!" Phoebe shrieked, her voice echoing. She stood over me, her chest heaving beneath her flashy gold gown, her hand still raised from the strike. "Look at what you've done! You've ruined everything! Do you have any idea how much this dress costs? Do you have any idea who you just insulted?"
I stayed on the floor, cradling my face, my long dark brown hair falling forward like a curtain to hide the tears that were starting to blur my vision. Through the strands of my hair, I looked at Adrian. He was leaning back in his chair, a look of casual amusement on his face as he watched me suffer for the trap he had set.
"Mother is right," Cassandra chimed in, her voice dripping with venomous pleasure. "She did this on purpose. She's jealous of Isabella, I believe. Look at her, lurking around in that old rag, trying to destroy the night for the rest of us. Why can't you stay away!"
Isabella was trembling, clutching her ruined dress. "My dress is destroyed," she sobbed, though the tears looked practiced, calculated to draw the crowd's sympathy. "Roman, how could she be so careless?"
I looked up at Roman, searching for any sign of sympathy from the man I called my husband. But his stormy grey eyes were cold and filled with a deep, simmering embarrassment. He looked at me not as his wife, but as a stain.
"Clean this up," Roman commanded in a low voice that sent shivers running down my spine. He didn't offer a hand. He didn't ask if I was hurt from the glass or the slap. "Get on your knees and clean up this mess before you embarrass me further," he said through gritted teeth.