Page 150 of Vow to Claim You

“Marcelina,” I say quietly when there’s a lull, “are you all right?”

She looks at me for a long moment. The mask doesn’t drop, but there’s a crack in the porcelain. “I’m managing.” She nods and smiles. “Some days better than others.”

“If you ever need anything⁠—”

“I know.” She squeezes my hand. “I know you mean that. And someday I might take you up on it.” Her eyes dart between mine. “Someday soon.”

Before I can respond, a voice cuts through the moment.

“Marcy.” Bobby appears behind his wife, one hand closing around her elbow.

I see the way Marcelina’s spine stiffens. The way her smile freezes into something practiced. The way the warmth drains from her eyes, replaced by something carefully blank.

Red flag. Big, waving, impossible-to-miss red flag.

“Bobby.” She doesn’t turn to look at him. “I was just congratulating Ayanna on the gala.”

His eyes flick across the room—finding Aric, calculating the distance—before returning to me. “It’s very nice.” His gaze slides over me in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Very… elegant.”

“Thank you.”

“Marcy, we should circulate.” His grip tightens. “You’ve monopolized our hostess long enough.”

“I don’t mind,” I say coolly. “Marcelina’s delightful company.”

Bobby’s smile doesn’t waver, but his eyes harden. “Still. Wouldn’t want to keep you from your other guests.” He tugs her closer. “Come on, sweetheart.”

Marcelina glances at me, just for a second—and in that second, I see everything she isn’t saying. The apology. The resignation.

“It was lovely talking to you,” she says, perfectly composed. “We should do it again sometime.”

“We will,” I promise.

He leads her away, his hand still on her elbow, his smile still bright and charming and utterly false.

“You’re plotting something.” Aric appears at my side, a glass of whiskey in his hand I’m certain he hasn’t touched.

“I’m always plotting something.”

“Yes, but this is a specific kind of plotting.” He follows my gaze to where the Thornes have vanished into the crowd. “Something to do with the Thornes?”

“He’s horrible to her.”

“I know.”

“The way he grabbed her arm⁠—”

“I saw.”

“Someone should⁠—”

“Ayanna.” His voice is quiet but firm. “Not tonight.”

I want to argue. I want to push. But he’s right.

“Fine,” I concede. “But we’re talking about this later.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”