Chapter 80: Delighted to see you
The shield they formed, the three of them, lasted only a moment. It was long enough for Beth to regain her footing, to feel the solid, familiar pressure of their combined presence at her back. Then Claire was pulling Damien away to greet a great-aunt, and Marco was winking at Beth before melting into the crowd to do what he did best: listen.
Beth floated again, but the current felt different now. The glances lasted a beat longer. The smiles were more considered. Damien’s intervention had been a public declaration, a silent blast from a horn that everyone in the room understood. She is under my protection. She is mine to protect.
It infuriated her. It also, infuriatingly, warmed her.
She found herself near the grand French doors leading to the terrace. The cool night air beckoned, a relief from the stifling perfume and politics. Slipping outside, she leaned against the cold stone balustrade, looking out over the manicured gardens, now lit by subtle ground lamps. The noise of the party became a dull, elegant roar behind the glass.
“He always did have a flair for the dramatic.”
Beth didn’t startle. She’d sensed Sophia’s approach, a cloud of floral intensity preceding her. She took a slow sip of champagne, her back still turned. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
Sophia came to stand beside her, not looking at her, gazing out at the dark shapes of the rose bushes. “Chasing off Salvatore Moretti like a dog snapping at a flea. It was… unsubtle. Even for my son.”
“Salvatore had had too much grappa,” Beth said, her voice neutral. “He was becoming an embarrassment to your guests. Damien merely ensured the party’s decorum.”
Sophia’s laugh was a short, dry sound. “Always so diplomatic. You could spin a takeover as a charitable donation. It’s what he always loved about you. And hated.”
Beth finally turned her head. Sophia was profile, a perfect silhouette of refined age and unyielding will. “Why did you invite me tonight, Sophia? Really.”
“For Claire. She asked.”
“Claire asks for many things you don’t grant.”
A faint smile touched Sophia’s lips. “True. Perhaps I wanted to see it for myself.”
“See what?”
“The myth. The woman who walked away from all this,” she said, a slight gesture encompassing the estate, the power, the dangerous allure. “The one he can’t replace. I watch him with the others, the models, the socialites he escorts for a month or two. He’s bored before the dessert course is cleared. But you… you he looks at like a man staring at a locked vault he lost the combination to. It’s fascinating.”
Beth’s grip tightened on the glass. “I’m not a puzzle for him to solve.”
“Aren’t you?” Sophia finally looked at her, her eyes sharp in the ambient light. “You’re here. You came. You’re wearing the emeralds he gave you for your third anniversary.”
“I’m wearing emeralds I bought,” Beth corrected, ice in her tone. “With the proceeds from the Montgomery Group’s third-quarter earnings. The paperwork is in my office safe, if you’d like to audit it.”
For the first time, something akin to genuine amusement flashed in Sophia’s eyes. “Touché. But the dress, the hair, the performance in there… it’s all a message. You’re not just his ex-wife. You’re the one who got away, and you’re making sure every man in that room knows you were the best thing this family ever had, and the biggest mistake they ever made.”
Beth held her gaze. “Is it working?”
Before Sophia could answer, the terrace door opened. Damien stepped out, the light from the party outlining his frame. He didn’t seem surprised to see them together. “Mother. They’re asking for you to cut the cake.”
Sophia’s mask of hostess perfection slid back into place seamlessly. “Of course.” She paused, glancing between them. “Don’t linger out here too long. People will talk.” She delivered the line not as a warning, but as a hopeful prediction, before gliding back inside.
The door shut, muffling the noise again. The silence between Beth and Damien was thick, charged with everything unsaid.
“She’s in rare form tonight,” Damien said, moving to lean on the balustrade next to her, close but not touching.
“She’s always in form. It’s her natural state.” Beth stared into her champagne, the bubbles dying. “She thinks I’m performing.”
“You are.”
She shot him a look. “So are you. We all are. That’s what these things are.”
“Not like you,” he said quietly. “You’re not just performing for them. You’re performing for her. For me. For yourself. It’s a three-act play and you’re the only one on stage.”
His perception scraped a nerve. “And you? Rescuing me from Moretti. That wasn’t a performance?”
“That was instinct.” His voice dropped, taking on a rough edge. “He put his hands on you. In my house.”
“It’s her house tonight,” Beth countered, but the fight was leaking out of her. The night air was cold on her bare arms. She felt the fatigue of the performance, the constant calculation, settling into her bones.
Damien shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket. Without a word, he draped it over her shoulders. The weight of it was immense, warm from his body heat, carrying the faint, familiar scent of his cologne and the ever-present whisper of cigar smoke.
She should have shrugged it off. Thrown it back at him. Instead, she pulled the slick satin lapels closer, her fingers curling into the fine fabric. It was a surrender, small and quiet.
“Thank you,” she murmured, the words lost for a moment in the rustle of cloth.
“For the jacket, or for Moretti?”
“Both.”
He nodded, looking out at the dark garden. “The ranch is secure. Marco checked in today. The new stallion is settling. He tried to bite Carlo.”
A real, unguarded smile touched her lips. “Good for him.”
From inside, the sound of a knife clinking against glass echoed, followed by a wave of shushing and then applause. The cake was being cut. The party was turning, moving towards its climax.
“We should go in,” she said, not moving.
“Yeah.”
Neither of them moved. He was looking at her now, his green eyes missing nothing—the weariness, the defiance, the way she was drowning in his jacket.
“Beth,” he started, his voice rough.
The terrace door burst open. Marco stood there, his usual cool demeanor replaced by a focused intensity. The music and laughter spilled out around him like a tidal wave. He didn’t look at Beth. His eyes were locked on Damien.
“We’ve got a situation,” Marco said, his tone cutting through the night. “Inside. Now.”
Damien was already moving, the softness in his posture hardening into something lethal in a heartbeat. “What is it?”
Marco’s gaze flicked to Beth for a fraction of a second, a silent apology. “Petrelli’s son. He just arrived. He’s not alone. He brought Vincent Accardi.”
The name landed in the quiet space between them like a lead weight. Accardi. A name from a different tier, a different kind of power. Old-world, ruthless, and someone the Rossis had a very careful, very distant understanding with. His presence here, unannounced, was not a social call. It was a statement. A challenge.
Damien’s jaw tightened. He looked back at Beth, the conflict raw on his face—the need to go, to handle this, warring with the need to stay, to ensure she was clear of the fallout.
Beth straightened her shoulders, his jacket feeling less like a comfort and more like a piece of armor now. She met Marco’s eyes and gave a single, slight nod. Then she looked at Damien, her own mask of polished control sliding back into place, harder and shinier than before.
“Go,” she said, her voice clear and steady. “I’ll be right behind you.”
She watched as the two men disappeared into the light and the noise, the door swinging shut and leaving her once again in the quiet dark. But the silence now was different. It was the silent pause before the storm breaks. She took a deep, steadying breath, the scent of Damien’s jacket filling her lungs, and prepared to walk back into the fire.