The Rolls-Royce purred to a stop under the portico of the Alston Hampton estate. The mansion was ablaze with light, the warm glow spilling out across the manicured lawns and illuminating the valets in their crisp uniforms. The sound of a string quartet drifted through the open front doors.
Curtis stepped out of the car first, not bothering to look back. He buttoned his suit jacket and immediately greeted a silver-haired man approaching the steps, his face breaking into that practiced, charming smile.
Diana sat in the backseat for a moment, gathering her strength. The drive had been a blur of pain and nausea. She took a shallow breath and slid across the leather seat, stepping out onto the cobblestone driveway.
The moment her heels hit the ground, her legs gave out. The weakness in her muscles, the loss of blood, the sheer exhaustion-it all collided at once. Her knees buckled, and she pitched forward toward the cold stone steps.
She threw her hands out, catching herself on the rough edge of the step. The impact jarred her wrists, but she managed to stop her face from hitting the stone. She stayed there for a second, on her hands and knees, gasping for air, the hem of her crimson dress pooling around her.
The head butler, Pemberton, stood at the top of the steps. He looked down at her, his face impassive, but Diana caught the slight curl of his lip. It was a look of pure contempt. He made no move to assist her.
Diana gritted her teeth and used the ornate iron railing beside the steps to haul herself up. Her arms trembled violently with the effort, and black spots danced in her vision, but she forced herself to stand. She smoothed down her dress, her hands shaking, and walked up the rest of the steps on her own.
Inside the grand ballroom, the air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars and Chanel No. 5. Curtis was already deep in conversation with a group of men near the bar, a crystal tumbler in his hand. He didn't even glance her way.
Diana found a quiet corner near a marble pillar. She pressed her shoulder against the cool stone, letting it support some of her weight. She kept her head down, trying to make herself as small as possible. If she was invisible, maybe the night would pass without incident.
But the Alston women had a radar for weakness.
"Well, well. Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence."
Diana closed her eyes for a brief second before opening them. Henrietta Alston, Curtis's mother, stood before her. Henrietta was wearing a severe purple gown that matched her icy demeanor, a champagne flute held elegantly in her hand. Right behind her, smirking, was Tatum, Curtis's younger sister.
"I'm surprised you could tear yourself away from whatever soap opera you've been watching in that penthouse," Henrietta said, her voice just loud enough to carry to the nearby guests. A few women paused their conversations, eager for the show.
Tatum leaned in, a fake look of concern on her face. "Don't be too hard on her, Mother. Diana is just feeling a little under the weather. She needs her rest."
Diana gripped her evening bag so tightly her knuckles turned white. "Henrietta. Tatum."
Henrietta took a delicate sip of her champagne. "Don't 'Henrietta' me. I don't claim a woman who can't even keep her husband interested, let alone understand basic social obligations. You look like a ghost, Diana. It's embarrassing."
A few titters of laughter rippled through the nearby group.
Tatum pulled her phone from her clutch, her eyes lighting up with malice. "Oh, speaking of interesting, did you see Carla's new piece? It just sold at Sotheby's for a record price. She's a true visionary." She tilted the screen so Diana had to look. Carla's face filled the frame, her soft brown eyes looking earnest and artistic.
Henrietta smiled, a genuine expression that she never offered her daughter-in-law. "Of course she is. Carla comes from old money and real talent. She has grace. Unlike some people who had to use a dying company as a dowry to trap a husband."
Every word was a hammer blow to Diana's fragile composure. She knew they wanted a reaction. They wanted her to cry, to scream, to make a scene so they could confirm she was the trash they believed her to be.
But the cramping in her belly was starting again, a dull, persistent throb that was climbing to a sharp peak. A sheen of cold sweat broke out on her forehead. She shifted her weight, leaning more heavily against the pillar.
Tatum noticed her grimace and rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. You're acting like you're dying. You look like you're about to throw up. What's the matter, Diana? Did the caviar not agree with you?"
"I'm fine," Diana managed, her voice barely a whisper.
Tatum stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. "You know, the way you're clutching your stomach and sweating... if I didn't know better, I'd think you were pregnant."
The word hung in the air like a gunshot.
Pregnant.
The irony was so brutal, so cruel, that Diana felt the floor tilt beneath her. She had been pregnant. She had been carrying a life. And now she was standing here, bleeding out that life, being mocked by these vicious women.
The color drained entirely from Diana's face. Her body began to shake, a fine tremor that started in her hands and spread to her shoulders. She couldn't breathe. The walls of the ballroom seemed to be closing in on her.
Henrietta looked her up and down, her lip curling in disgust. "Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. You can't even stand up straight at a family event. You're a disgrace to the Alston name."
Diana bit her lower lip so hard she tasted blood. She wanted to scream the truth at them. She wanted to tell them about the blood, the baby, the absolute hell her life was. But she knew it wouldn't matter. To them, her pain was just a performance.
Her vision blurred, the chandeliers above her smearing into streaks of gold. She felt her knees start to give way again. She was going to collapse, right here, in front of everyone.
She looked across the room, a desperate, instinctive search for her husband. She found Curtis. He was watching her.
Their eyes met over the sea of guests. But there was no concern in his gaze. There was only a cold, hard warning. His jaw was clenched, and his eyes narrowed slightly, a clear command: Stand up. Stop making a scene. Do not embarrass me.
He looked away, turning back to his conversation.
The finality of that look shattered something inside her. He didn't care if she lived or died. He only cared about the show.
Diana's eyes rolled back, and the ballroom tilted violently. She started to slide down the pillar, her clutch bag hitting the floor with a soft thud.
"Henrietta! Tatum!"
The booming voice cut through the music and the chatter like a knife. The room went instantly quiet.
Henrietta and Tatum froze, their smug expressions vanishing, replaced by sudden fear. They slowly turned toward the source of the voice.
Diana clung to the pillar, fighting to stay conscious. She looked up and saw an older man striding toward them from the entrance to the study. He leaned heavily on a silver-tipped cane, but his posture was rigid, his presence commanding.
Montgomery Alston. The patriarch. The man who owned every soul in this room.
He stopped in front of the two women, his sharp eyes taking in Diana's slumped, shaking form. His face was like thunder.
"Is this how the women of the Alston family treat their hostess?" he roared, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "Like stray dogs on the street?"
