After My Husband Claimed a Fake Treasure, I Ended Us

The main ballroom was a cathedral of wealth. Crystal chandeliers refracted light into a thousand fractured rainbows across the polished marble floor. The crowd moved in elegant, predatory circles—hedge fund managers brushing shoulders with tech moguls, old money eyeing new money with thinly veiled contempt. I stood near the edge of the room, letting the noise wash over me without touching me.

A champagne flute appeared in my peripheral vision, held by long, elegant fingers.

"You look like someone who could use a drink," Reed Edwards said, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear it over the ambient symphony of wealth.

I turned. He had changed since I'd seen him on the upper deck—the suit was different, darker, cut with the kind of precision that whispered bespoke tailoring from a European atelier whose name you had to inherit to learn. His expression was perfectly neutral, but his eyes carried that same unsettling awareness.

"I don't drink when I'm working," I said evenly.

His mouth curved. "And what work would that be?"

"Observation."

"Ah." He set the champagne flute on a passing server's tray without looking, his gaze never leaving mine. "Then we're in the same line of business tonight."

The air between us tightened, a live wire humming just beneath the surface of civility. He stepped closer, angling his body so that to anyone watching, we looked like old acquaintances exchanging pleasantries. His voice dropped another register.

"Your adoptive father was Victor Hall."

It wasn't a question. The phantom touch at my collarbone—the absent necklace—burned.

"You've done your homework," I said quietly.

Reed's smile sharpened. "Victor Hall was a legend in circles that don't advertise themselves. The kind of man who could read a poker table the way surgeons read an operating room. I heard he taught his daughter everything he knew before he died."

I held his gaze, refusing to confirm or deny. Let him work for it.

"If someone were foolish enough to challenge that daughter tonight," Reed continued, his tone turning speculative, "I imagine it would be a very short game."

"Hypothetically."

"Hypothetically," he agreed, the word laced with dark amusement. He glanced toward the entrance, where the security detail had momentarily stiffened. "Though it looks like your evening is about to get more interesting."

I followed his gaze.

Lennon Kelly stood at the top of the grand staircase, his rented tuxedo straining slightly across the shoulders, his hair gelled into submission. Beside him, Tatum Gonzalez wore a gown that screamed desperation—red, sequined, plunging in three different directions at once. Her chin was lifted at an angle that suggested she was daring the room to question her presence.

They had crashed the party.

Reed made a soft sound of interest. "Friends of yours?"

"Former," I said, my voice flat.

He studied my profile for a long moment, then stepped back with the unhurried grace of a man repositioning chess pieces. "Then I'll leave you to it. But Blair—" He paused, and the use of my first name landed with quiet intimacy. "When you're ready to play, find me. I'll make sure you have the right table."

He disappeared into the crowd before I could respond, leaving only the faint scent of expensive cologne and the electric certainty that he had just offered me an alliance.

I turned back toward the entrance.

Lennon and Tatum were descending the staircase now, their eyes scanning the room with the hungry, anxious energy of people who knew they didn't belong but refused to admit it. Tatum's hand was locked around Lennon's arm, her knuckles white. A server passed nearby, and I shifted slightly, accepting a glass of sparkling water from his tray.

Tatum's gaze landed on me.

I watched the recognition hit her in stages. Confusion first—what was I doing here? Then disbelief. Then a hot, vicious rage that turned her expression into something ugly and sharp.

She said something to Lennon, her lips moving fast and angry. His head snapped toward me, his eyes widening. For a fraction of a second, I saw fear flicker across his face. But Tatum was already moving, dragging him across the ballroom floor with the single-minded determination of someone who had convinced themselves they held the higher ground.

I set my glass down on a nearby table and turned to face them.

Tatum stopped three feet away, her chest heaving, her eyes glittering with malice. Lennon hovered just behind her, his expression caught between confusion and something that looked uncomfortably like shame.

"Blair," Tatum said, her voice loud enough to turn heads. "What the hell are you doing here?"

I met her gaze. Said nothing.

"Did you sneak in?" she continued, her tone rising with performative outrage. "Oh my God, you did. You're here begging for scraps, aren't you? Trying to find some rich man to leech off now that Lennon's finally free?"

The crowd around us had gone quiet. I could feel their attention like a physical weight, a dozen conversations pausing mid-sentence.

I smiled.

It was a small, cold thing—barely a curve of my lips.

"Hello, Tatum," I said softly. "I didn't realize the guest list had gotten so… lenient."