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“Hi,” she breathed. “Don’t leave me alone tonight, okay?”
Many, many wicked thoughts flashed through his mind at that, but he simply squeezed her hand, and said, “What, and leave you to these wolves? Never.”
She smiled, a shy, genuine smile, and it shone so brightly everything else faded into the shadows.
“Tch, Victoria,” said a voice beside them. “It’s so brave of you, darling, to come.”
The smile faded into something rigid and forced, and for a second, he wanted to punch the owner of the voice. But a second later, he recognized it as belonging to his seventy-year-old Aunt Mable, so instead, he turned to her and said, “Don’t you look lovely this evening? And how is Uncle Fred?”
The old prune startled as if she hadn’t noticed him there. “Ryder. Hello. You’re looking . . .” She let her eyes glide up and down his frame but didn’t finish her sentence. She turned back to Vic, hand to her chest. “Oh, dear. I had hoped it was the papers up to more of their nonsense.” She leaned in, though she didn’t bother to lower her voice. “I know this business with Noah is upsetting, but you deserve more, darling.”
Vicky opened her mouth to say something, but Mable just patted her cheek and walked away, tutting.
“Wine?” he asked as they watched her go.
“Please.”
* * *
Ryder was watching her. He was probably trying to be subtle about it, but subtle wasn’t his strong suit. She could tell he was trying to protect her. It was really rather adorable.
“I’m fine,” she told him through a smile as they navigated around the room. She nodded to an older gentleman she knew to be one of Warren’s Princeton friends.
“Yes, but are you really?” Ryder gave the man an insincere smile. “Clive.”
“Yes, really.” Being fine was what was required in order to get through this with her dignity intact, and so she was damn well going to be fine.
They had been circulating for over an hour, smiling and nodding through a stream of pleasantries with the various party guests. They had said hello to Cheryl and Warren. Cheryl had been warm as always, Warren stiff but cordial. They had offered their congratulations (again) to the happy couple, and that had gone just fine really. Awkward for Vicky, of course, but she got the sense it was uncomfortable for Sabrina as well, and she couldn’t help but feel for her. Being with a Prince, this kind of attention. It was a lot, even without his ex still hovering in the periphery.
There had been photos (photographers were circling to capture the moment both for posterity and the society pages), there had been well wishes, and there had been many, many pitying looks.
“It is very good to see you looking so . . .” Marjory Blackwell, a major the Prince Foundation donor, paused, looking her over as she searched for the right word. “Well, you’ve made it here. That’s something all by itself, isn’t it?”
Vicky gave a strained smile she hoped didn’t look strained. “Thank you, Marjory. It’s lovely to see you.”
After the woman had moved away, Ryder turned to Vicky again. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes.”
And she was. Yes, a lot of people were offering her more sympathy than she felt was truly necessary. The consensus seemed to be that if she thought Noah marrying someone else wasn’t a devastating loss for her, she ought to rethink that.
But she could handle it. She could hold her head high. Accept their well-meaning condolences gracefully.
What was really grating on her—
“Ryder Prince! I never thought I’d see the day,” laughed a middle-aged man with a comb-over as he passed.
—was that.
She was a poor thing to be pitied, but Ryder was, apparently, just there to be the butt of an unending series of weak and unoriginal cruel jokes.
She stole a glance at him. His jaw ticked, but he said nothing.
“Victoria!” Anastasia Cartwright gushed. The young socialite leaned in to kiss the air next to Vicky’s cheek. “So marvelous to see you out and about!” She slid her gaze in Ryder’s direction and added in a very audible whisper, “Do you need an intervention, Vicky dear?”
What was she supposed to say to that?
Ryder nodded. “Anastasia.”
