My best friend, Ava, handed me a glass of ice water and slumped into the chair beside me with a sigh. "I can't believe this, Juliet," she seethed. "He's throwing away eight years of your loyalty for a three-day performance."
I said nothing, my eyes fixed on the center of the ballroom.
Ronan was placing the family ring on Bianca's finger. She angled her hand, admiring the ring with a triumphant smirk as he smiled and nodded—never once glancing in my direction.
My fingers found the small, crushed-velvet box in my pocket. It felt misshapen, ruined.
Useless now.
The lazy jazz music swelled through the gala.
Ava tugged at my hand. "Come on, let's get some air on the terrace. Don't torture yourself watching them."
She pulled me to my feet, but we’d barely taken two steps before Bianca appeared, still clinging to Ronan's arm.
"Juliet, are you still here?" Her smile was pure poison. "Ronan was just about to teach me some private 'family rules.' He says it's far too crowded to discuss them here."
Ronan didn't look at me, his attention solely on Bianca. "It’s too loud in here. Let's find somewhere quieter."
A moment later, Bianca cried out and stumbled into his arms. "Ah! My ankle—it hurts so much!"
He was instantly on one knee, cradling her foot as if it were a Michelangelo sculpture. His fingers stroked her ankle. "Does it hurt badly? I'll have the doctor come over."
"No need," Bianca cooed, grabbing his hand and leaning in close. "As long as you're here, it doesn't hurt at all."
Watching them, the last ember of hope inside me finally died.
Then Ronan finally turned to me, his expression dismissive. "Juliet, go to the cellar and get a bottle of Dom Pérignon Rosé. Bianca's thirsty."
"Are your own legs broken?" I asked, my voice flat and my expression unmoving.
"Her ankle is injured. She can't walk," he said, his brow furrowing with impatience. His tone was that of a Don accustomed to absolute obedience. "This is an order, Juliet. Do as you're told."
I met his glare, my voice dangerously low. "Her ankle is not my concern. Tell me, Ronan, are you her servant, or are you my man?"
The music seemed to screech to a halt. Every head in the vicinity turned, their eyes darting between us.
The color drained from Bianca's face. She tugged at his sleeve, tears already shining in her eyes. "Juliet, I didn't mean to trouble you. I can get it myself…" She made a weak attempt to stand, looking as if she might faint.
"Stay seated!" Ronan commanded, pushing her gently back down. He then snarled at me, drawing out my name with menace, "Jul-iet. You've gone too far. She's injured."
"I've gone too far?" A bitter laugh escaped my lips, tears blurring my vision. "For eight years, I have put my life on the line for you. What the hell am I to you?"
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Bianca held him tighter. "Let's just go sit over there, Ronan…"
He turned without a backward glance, helping her limp away as if she were a priceless, fragile treasure.
The glittering lights of the ballroom blurred, but all I felt was a bone-deep cold.
