Chapter 61
Maxwell Reeves stifled a laugh, nearly choking on his own amusement before regaining composure.
Zachary Blackwood felt a sharp pang of resentment. His response was icy. “There’s no future between us, and the past is gone. I won’t stoop to something so shameless.”
Lucian Ashford didn’t bother arguing. He shrugged and smoothly changed the subject. “Anything catching your eye at tonight’s auction?”
“Yes. The Antique Rosewood Chair. I intend to gift it to my grandfather for his birthday.”
“Excellent choice! I can help secure it for you. If anyone tries to outbid you, I’ll handle them.”
“Unnecessary,” Zachary replied calmly. “This is a charity auction. If it’s meant to be mine, it will be. Forcing it would ruin the spirit of the event.”
The two entered the grand venue, striding straight to the first row—reserved for VIPs of elite status. Their arrival caused a ripple of murmurs, their striking looks and commanding presence impossible to ignore.
The whispers among the women were immediate.
“Mr. Blackwood is breathtaking! A literal dream come true!”
“A dream? Don’t even fantasize. He’s engaged to the Delacroix heiress, haven’t you heard?”
“What?! The Delacroix family? The ones in home goods? Good heavens, he’s wasting himself on her!”
“Vanessa and Mr. Blackwood grew up together. He divorced his ex-wife just to marry her. No one stands a chance.”
“That poor ex-wife! And Vanessa is so insufferable—I give it two years before he tires of her!”
Zachary took his seat with effortless grace, his aura setting him apart from the crowd. His gaze flickered across the aisle, landing on a chair with a nameplate: Nathan Whitmore.
His lips thinned, eyes glinting coldly.
Lucian leaned in. “Sorry, Zach. My grandfather reserved these seats. I can’t rearrange them.”
He understood Zachary’s tension and added, “These front-row seats are a status symbol. Even your stepmother and stepsisters were seated behind. Nathan Whitmore is Reginald Whitmore’s eldest son—President of Whitmore Holdings. We can’t slight them. Just endure it.”
Outside, the Montclair sisters mingled with high society ladies while Cassandra and Vanessa exchanged compliments. Amelia, however, had vanished, likely sulking somewhere.
“Where’s Amelia? Has anyone seen her?” Vanessa asked sweetly.
“Who cares? As long as she’s not dead,” Cassandra snapped, irritation flaring at the mention of her timid sister.
Vanessa hid a smirk. “Don’t say that. She’s your sister—the youngest Blackwood. You should be kinder.”
“I wish I didn’t have a sister like her. She’s an embarrassment.”
Vanessa’s smile deepened. Perfect. Keeping the sisters divided made her future as Mrs. Blackwood much easier.
Just then, the atmosphere shifted. A commanding presence approached.
The Montclair sisters, Vanessa, Cassandra, and the other women turned—and froze.
Evelyn Sinclair strode toward them in a sleek black suit, heels clicking sharply against the marble. Her crimson lips curved in amusement as she effortlessly outshone Vanessa and Cassandra’s meticulously planned outfits. Behind her, Tristan Gallagher looked equally dashing.
They intended to walk past, but Isabella Montclair couldn’t resist a jab.
“Imagine seeing a country girl like you at such an elite event. How charitable of them to lower their standards.”
Evelyn paused, one hand in her pocket as she smirked.
“There’s a lot you haven’t seen yet. Just because it surprises you doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”
Her tone was light, but the challenge was clear. The air crackled with tension.
