Chapter 2: The Cracks in the Facade
The gala was meant to be the definitive display of Vance dominance, a celebration of the heir’s first three months of life. Yet, as the night wore on, Isabella felt the strain of the masquerade. Her hands, hidden beneath the folds of her gown, were shaking. She had not slept more than three hours a night since the baby had been born, terrified that a momentary lapse in vigilance would allow a wrinkle to form in the carefully pressed fabric of her life.
Sebastian moved through the room like a specter, his eyes dark and unreadable. He rarely spoke to her, preferring to communicate through subtle shifts in his posture or the chilling tightening of his jaw. He was a man who demanded excellence, and Isabella had learned that in the Vance family, excellence was the bare minimum.
"Isabella," Sebastian whispered, leaning into her ear so close that the coolness of his skin brushed her cheek. "You’re holding him too tightly."
Isabella loosened her grip, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked down at the infant. The child was crying—a soft, whimpering sound that seemed to vibrate through the ballroom. To Isabella, the sound was a siren, a signal of impending catastrophe.
"He's hungry," she murmured, turning toward the private quarters
The gala was meant to be the definitive display of Vance dominance, a celebration of the heir’s first three months of life. Yet, as the night wore on, Isabella felt the strain of the masquerade. Her hands, hidden beneath the folds of her gown, were shaking. She had not slept more than three hours a night since the baby had been born, terrified that a momentary lapse in vigilance would allow a wrinkle to form in the carefully pressed fabric of her life.
Sebastian moved through the room like a specter, his eyes dark and unreadable. He rarely spoke to her, preferring to communicate through subtle shifts in his posture or the chilling tightening of his jaw. He was a man who demanded excellence, and Isabella had learned that in the Vance family, excellence was the bare minimum.
"Isabella," Sebastian whispered, leaning into her ear so close that the coolness of his skin brushed her cheek. "You’re holding him too tightly."
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Isabella loosened her grip, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked down at the infant. The child was crying—a soft, whimpering sound that seemed to vibrate through the ballroom. To Isabella, the sound was a siren, a signal of impending catastrophe.
"He's hungry," she murmured, turning toward the private quarters
