Page 54 of Wicked God
“You must be Olivia,” she says as she reapplies the color. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”
“That’s me.” I smile. “And you are...?”
She laughs, poised and confident. “I’m Elena Crawford. Congratulations on your engagement.” She finishes my lip line with a practiced flick. “Two weeks in and already wearing the Hawthorne diamond—you must be very special.”
Her tone is sharp. I focus on fixing my hair.
“Thank you,” I say evenly.
“I’ve known the Hawthorns forever,” Elena continues. “Richard—Senator Hawthorne—and my father were Yale roommates. Our families have been intertwined for generations.” She lifts her wrist, drawing attention to a diamond bracelet. “A gift from Richard on my twenty-fifth birthday. The Hawthorns are always generous with their own.”
The message is clear: she belongs here; I do not. I swallow, capping my lipstick with more force than necessary. “How wonderful that you’ve stayed close.”
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Elena’s voice softens with what might be mistaken for kindness. “I wish you both every happiness. But the Hawthorns have… expectations, traditions older than I can count. Richard has very precise ideas about the kind of woman who bears his name.” She smooths a perfect curl behind her ear. “Did Alex mention that when he proposed? Or was it all moonlight and roses?”
“Alex and I understand each other perfectly.”
“I’m sure you do.” Elena’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Just remember, darling, knowing the man isn’t the same asunderstanding the legacy he carries. And you’re marrying that name as much as you’re marrying him.”
She turns back to the mirror. “I ought to return. Alex’s father is waiting for our dance. Old traditions die hard.” With a snap, her compact closes, and she tucks it into her clutch. “It was lovely to meet you, Olivia. I’m sure we’ll be seeing much more of each other.”
I murmur something polite, snatch up my purse, and flee the suffocating presence of the woman who knows Alex in ways I suddenly fear I never will.
I step out of the powder room with Elena’s words clinging to me like strong perfume, inescapable and overwhelming.
I need to find Alex, see his face, hear his voice, banish the doubts she’s planted.
The main ballroom’s lights and music swell ahead. I lift my chin, paint a perfect smile on my lips, and step back into the performance.
“There she is! The woman who stole our Alex’s heart.” An elderly matron swathed in enough diamonds to fund a small nation clasps my hand between her papery fingers. “My dear, you’re such a breath of fresh air. The Hawthorns have truly impeccable taste.”
“Thank you,” I manage, scanning the glittering crowd over her silver coiffure. “Have you seen Alex this evening?”
“He was talking with Cameron by the terrace doors just a few minutes ago,” she says, patting my hand. “What a dashing pair you two make. The photographs will be divine.”
I extract myself with a polite smile. More guests intercept me as I move through the crowd—a socialite whose name I should remember but don’t, and a cousin of Alex’s who looks at me with barely concealed skepticism. Each interaction feels like wading through honey: slow, sticky, and utterly draining.
“Excuse me,” I say, weaving through clusters of laughing guests. My eyes dart from face to face, but there’s no sign of him. A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne, and I’m tempted to grab a glass to steady my nerves.
“…always knew he’d come back to her,” a woman’s hushed voice floats from near a marble column. “The Crawford-Hawthorne alliance has been in motion since childhood.”
“And the new girl?” her friend replies. “A mere detour, darling. Richard would never sanction the engagement, especially when Elena’s family boasts three generations of political clout and controls the Crawford media empire.”
I freeze, feigning interest in a floral display as I strain to overhear more.
“Did you see Elena tonight? That emerald gown was a statement—Hawthorne green, matched perfectly to the stone in Alexander’s ring.”
“The very ring he demanded back,” the first woman corrects. “Though Margaret on Richard’s board says he locked it in the family vault. Just in case.”
I spot a set of French doors at the far end, one slightly ajar. I walk toward it, sidestepping a waiter with a tray of canapés I couldn’t possibly stomach now.
A gentle breeze stirs the sheer curtain, revealing glimpses of the balcony. My hand rises to the handle, but I freeze when a soft, intimate laugh drifts through the crack.
Elena’s laugh.
I step to the side, partially hidden by the curtain. Through the glass panels of the door, I can see them. Alex stands with his back to me, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the night sky. Elena faces him, moonlight catching the shimmer of her emerald dress. They stand impossibly close. Her hand lifts, fingers brushing his cheek in a gesture so familiar it makes my stomach twist.
“Is this what you truly want, love?” Her voice carries through the night air.
