“I’ve got a phone. Want me to call the cops for you?”
The group of swaggering lackeys burst into loud, mocking laughter.
I lowered my head, scrolling lazily through my phone, too disinterested to respond further.
But one thing was clear—Evelyn Carter really was trying to protect me.
The engagement ceremony wrapped up soon after.
Then came the real purpose of the event: food, drinks, and networking.
Marco Ramirez strutted around the hall with Evelyn at his side, glass in hand, offering a toast as guests fawned over him.
I sat quietly, digging into what I could find in the Ramirez family. They were indeed Charleston’s wealthiest household, but at the end of the day, they were nouveau riche.
The Ramirezes had only clawed their way to the top because of connections in New York, landing enough projects to solidify their fortune. Yet, for all their money, they’d never cracked Charleston’s true old-money circles.
Tonight’s guest list confirmed it—most here were either vassals of the Ramirez clan or hangers-on of the Carter family.
The Carters, though once a respected family, had long since declined.
This marriage was transactional: the Ramirezes wanted aristocratic legitimacy, and the Carters wanted financial rescue.
It was a story I’d seen play out countless times in history books and in real life. Marriage, after all, was as much a business deal as any merger.
Just then, a girl no older than sixteen or seventeen plopped into the chair beside me. She was pretty in a sweet way, cheeks still rounded with youth, her features bearing a striking resemblance to Evelyn.
“My name’s Emily Carter. I’m Evelyn’s younger sister,” she said matter-of-factly.
“From now on, don’t say a word. Just come with me.”
Her doll-like face didn’t match the icy tone of her voice. She grabbed my hand firmly.
But I didn’t move. Instead, I asked evenly, “Did your sister send you to help me?”
“What do you think?” Emily snapped, brows furrowing. “If you don’t come now, you won’t be able to leave at all.”
At that moment, several more bodyguards in black suits began drifting toward me.
Emily sighed, letting go of my hand and slumping back in her chair. She knew as well as I did that she couldn’t get me out.
“You shouldn’t have come,” she murmured, almost to herself. “If it weren’t for you, my sister wouldn’t be stuck marrying that short, greasy creep.”
For me?
I was taken aback, but before I could press her further, a stir rippled through the banquet hall.
Marco and Evelyn headed toward the entrance, signaling everyone to rise.
Seven or eight young elites entered, men and women alike, their tailored suits and gowns matched by the quiet confidence in their bearing.
The leader, especially, though only in his early twenties, carried himself with gravity that made the entire hall take notice.
“Zane, you finally made it!” Marco hurried forward, extending his hand eagerly. “Otherwise, my engagement party wouldn’t be half as grand.”
But Zane Mitchell didn’t so much as glance at him. He ignored Marco’s outstretched hand, his eyes locked squarely on Evelyn.
“You’re Evelyn Carter?”
She faltered, clearly caught off guard, before nodding.
Zane’s hard expression softened just slightly. “He covered his tracks well. Otherwise, we’d have known each other long ago.”
Marco blinked in confusion, wondering when exactly he’d ever “hidden” anything. But he shook it off quickly and raised his voice for everyone to hear.
“Everyone, allow me to introduce Zane Mitchell of the Mitchell family in New York—the true heir, the Crown Prince of the capital itself! The Mitchells are the Ramirez family’s greatest allies!”
The applause was immediate, loud, and almost desperate. The guests practically fell over themselves to flatter the Mitchell heir.
Marco Ramirez, however, had his eye on me. He noticed I was still sitting comfortably on the sofa.
“Boy, who the hell do you think you are, staying seated?” he barked, his oily face twisting with disdain.
Evelyn Carter’s voice cut in, sharp with command. “Nick Whitmore, stand up!”
