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“You still haven’t learned anything about your sparkling wines, Genevieve. The champagne was bland and lacking in the bouquet. Maybe if you’d apply yourself to something worth your time instead of whatever it is you do these days, you could dedicate yourself to more worthwhile pursuits. Matters worthy of your station.”
Now bushy eyebrows lifted in a gesture of thorough disgust and suggestiveness, and Chiara felt Vi’s fingers tremble again as she blanched, a blue vein fluttering manically under the pale skin on her long neck.
“I think some champagne would be splendid, darling.” She deliberately half-turned away from the now gaping Courtenays and traced a finger over Vi’s cheekbone.
Vi’s throat worked, Chiara’s eyes tracing the movement down and up before nodding towards the bar and letting go of the shaking hand. When Vi left without a word to her parents, Charles cursed under his breath.
“Goddamn it, I taught that girl better manners.” The next moment, he had departed in the same direction as Vi, who had disappeared into the crushing crowd, leaving Chiara and Gwyneth in an uncomfortable silence.
“I swear, every time we see that girl, she grows more willful. Sadly, we don’t see her much at all these days. With behavior like that, this may be for the best.” Gwyneth looked at her nails, her entire air affecting boredom despite her earlier salacious interest in the details of Chiara’s life. Well, this certainly seemed more like the apathetic stepmother Chiara had heard about years ago, even if Vi herself had talked about her very little.
“If by ‘willful’ you mean, independent, talented and successful, then certainly, Mrs. Courtenay.” Done playing nice, Chiara thought she’d rather be dead than call this cold fish ‘My Lady’ again. Her mother, god rest her soul, had had many wonderful Italian appellations for just this type of person.
Too bad Chiara couldn’t use any of them just now. There were many Page Seven reporters milling about, and the headline of “Newly triumphantly returned Chiara Conti calls the Countess of Rae various creative Italian insults, implying that she smells and might be in an inappropriate relationship with various blood relatives,” wasn’t something that appealed.
Although possibly funny, she assumed Vi would be mortified. Come to think about it, Vi seemed both apprehensive—if not completely overcome by dread—and also embarrassed to see her parents at the gala.
But, just because the last sentence uttered by Gwyneth grated, Chiara couldn’t help herself. The proverbial knife in her hands needed just a little twisting. And she was never one to deny herself simple, petty pleasures.
“And while some things certainly may appear as though they’re what’s best for you, from where I’m standing, your husband is certainly hot in pursuit of his daughter, which is far from what you consider ideal, isn’t it?”
Gwyneth turned to her then, opening her mouth to spew whatever invective had surely been on her tongue, only to be unceremoniously interrupted.
“Here I thought some establishments had better security…” The haughty tones of Arabella broke the standoff, and Chiara had the surprising pleasure of seeing Gwyneth’s already razor thin lips disappear entirely from her now ruddy face.
Before Gwyneth was able to spit out whatever she was preparing to throw at Arabella, she, in turn, turned to Chiara and leaned towards her under the guise of air kissing her cheeks, murmuring, “I think our girl may need to be rescued.”
A chin tilt towards the end of the bar where Vi’s spine was so straight, it was surely about to snap as Charles spoke from between clenched teeth without taking his eyes off his daughter.
“If you would excuse me—” Chiara’s departure, however, was delayed by a burning hot hand that landed on her forearm with slightly more force than was necessary to stop her. Nails dug in, paying Chiara back just a little for her earlier insult.
“This is a family matter, Ms. Conti. Given your humble upbringing, I’m not sure you understand, but if I were you, I’d not intervene. Genevieve needs to assume her position in the society, although with the company she keeps, I’m not certain that is even possible. You’ve latched on to her before. Perhaps it’s time to let her family take care of her?”
Chiara gave Gwyneth a pointed stare. “I’ve seen strangers treat her better than her family ever did, Mrs. Courtenay. Now, before I reconsider and give into the temptation to create a few potentially scandalous headlines for Page Seven, kindly unhand me.” Leaning closer, Chiara lowered her voice. “You may not know this, but you can take a girl off the Italian streets, but you can’tquiteget the streets out of this particular girl.”
She savored seeing fear in Gwyneth’s eyes before she snatched her hand away. Chiara turned on her heel as Arabella chuckled, and Gwyneth slinked off into the crowd.
Given the fact that everyone seemed to know her and wanted to talk to her—from wishing Chiaroscuro well, to expressing the conviction that they’d always known it was her behind the meteoric rise of the brand—Chiara made her way through the throng of people fairly quickly. Several tried to coax her into divulging details or impress upon her their urgent need for a bespoke wedding gown, but Chiara was not able to really see them or register their words or comprehend what they were asking of her. Vi was still cornered by her father, so nothing else mattered.
Finally, nodding and smiling vaguely at a man she numbly thought was with a Poise competitor, she reached the bar. Once there, the sound of the ballroom seemed to recede, allowing her to overhear the last of the words being thrown in Vi’s face by that gruff voice, wiping the last traces of blood from those features.
“…never could do anything right. Just like your mother—”
“Enough!”
Her own voice felt foreign to her. Both the word itself and the low intonation, the command in it like a whip lashing at Charles and steadying Vi.
A memory intruded, breaking the reddening at the corners of her vision. A Parisian rooftop and Vi whispering so earnestly,“Hold on to me. I’m here.”
Her own words, uttered from Vi’s threshold just last night, rang in her ears.Debts incurred. Debts paid.It was Chiara’s turn to prop up Vi, as the world whirled around them with cruelty and fury.
Before either Charles or Vi could say anything, Chiara took Vi’s hand and, without another glance, walked away. She didn’t care how rude or inappropriate her behavior was. Nothing mattered, except the absolutely empty look in those usually sparkling eyes.
The ride to Vi’s apartment was silent, and only the hand, still cold and motionless in hers, kept Chiara anchored to the present, just as it had when they’d entered the cursed ballroom.
* * *
As the keystrembled in Vi’s fingers, missing the lock several times, Chiara took charge. The instinct that always seemed to overwhelm her where Vi was concerned, to protect, to care, to shield, had her gently take them from the listless hand.
