My Arrogant Suitor Ruined My Reputation At A High-Society Gala — He Never Expected Who Would Claim Me Next
Part 1
Whispers cut deeper than any blade, especially when masked by the polite clinking of champagne flutes.
I stood frozen in the center of the stifling ballroom.
Silk clung uncomfortably to my damp skin.
Hundreds of eyes stripped me bare, feasting on a scandal I hadn’t committed.
A spilled drink, a torn bodice, a vicious lie spoken into the right aristocratic ear.
My reputation evaporated in the span of three breaths.
Heat hung in the ballroom like wet wool.
It was a stifling, oppressive warmth, radiating through layers of velvet and heavily powdered skin.
I pressed my spine against the cool plaster of the alcove, desperately trying to draw a full breath.
My corset dug violently into my lower ribs with every shallow gasp.
I hated the smell of these gatherings.
It was a suffocating mixture of melting beeswax, clawing rose water, and the sharp sour tang of nervous sweat.
“Hiding, Miss Miller?”
The voice was slurred, thick with port wine and misplaced confidence.
Tyler leaned heavily against the arched entryway, blocking my only exit.
His eyes, glassy and unfocused, dragged down the length of my pale blue gown.
He smelled of stale tobacco and sour breath.
“I am merely seeking air,” I said.
I kept my voice level and perfectly neutral.
My mother had drilled this into me for years.
There was plenty of air out on the terrace.
He stepped closer.
The toe of his polished boot caught the hem of my skirt.
He demanded I come with him.
I tried to step sideways to slip past his shoulder.
Tyler moved faster than his drunken demeanor suggested.
His hand shot out, thick fingers clamping down on my upper arm.
His grip was bruising and painful.
Panic spiked in my chest, cold and sharp.
He pulled me against his chest, muttering something about being tiresome.
The brass buttons of his waistcoat bit into my collarbone.
He ducked his head, attempting to press his wet mouth against my neck.
Revulsion overtook decorum.
I planted my palms against his chest and shoved with all my meager strength.
Tyler stumbled backward, his heel catching on the edge of a heavy velvet curtain.
He went down hard.
His hand stayed fisted in the delicate fabric of my bodice.
The sound of tearing silk was deafening.
It ripped like a gunshot over the polite hum of the string quartet.
The cool draft of the ballroom hit my exposed collarbone.
My bodice hung by a few frayed threads, exposing the stark white cotton beneath.
Tyler hit the polished mahogany floor with a dull thud.
Lady Brenda stood a few feet away, her fan halted halfway to her face.
Two other debutantes peered over her shoulder, their eyes wide and hungry.
Tyler realized he had an audience.
His face contorted into an ugly, theatrical mask of outrage.
He scrambled to his feet, wiping his own mouth with the back of his hand.
He barked loudly, asking if I had no shame.
I froze completely.
The blood drained from my face so fast I felt dizzy.
He spat out a venomous accusation, claiming I threw myself at him like a common harlot.
He looked toward the crowd, playing the victim with practiced ease.
He lied, claiming I dragged him into the alcove.
“That’s a lie,” I whispered.
My voice cracked.
My throat felt tight, lined with sandpaper.
Tyler snapped at me to be quiet.
The string quartet scraped to a miserable halt.
The silence that followed was absolute and suffocating.
The crowd formed a neat, equidistant circle around me, as if I were carrying the plague.
I saw my father near the punch bowl.
He stared at my torn dress, his face turning an ugly shade of mottled purple.
He didn’t step forward.
He slowly turned his back, staring intently at the wall.
A collective whisper erupted, sounding like dry leaves rustling in a harsh wind.
My family was ruined, our debts common knowledge, and now this.
Nausea clawed at my stomach.
My hands shook violently.
I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to hold the ruined pieces of my dress together.
I was completely, utterly alone.
If I ran, it was an admission of guilt.
If I stayed, it was torture.
I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting the prickle of tears.
A heavy thud echoed from the entrance hall.
It was a sharp concussive sound, like a hammer striking an anvil.
The massive oak doors groaned on their hinges and swung inward.
A gust of November wind swept into the room, carrying the scent of impending rain and woodsmoke.
It blew out a cluster of candles in the nearest sconce.
The whispers died instantly.
Greg stood in the doorway.
He did not belong here.
He hadn’t attended a social function in five years, not since the fire at his country estate.
He leaned heavily on a blackthorn cane, his knuckles white against the silver head.
He was broad-shouldered and imposing, dressed entirely in unyielding morning black.
The left side of his jaw and neck was a landscape of puckered, scarred tissue.
His right side was ruthlessly handsome, possessing cold, pale gray eyes.
He stepped into the ballroom.
His cane met the floorboards in a steady, unhurried rhythm.
The crowd scrambled out of his way, practically climbing over each other to avoid his coat.
He kept his eyes fixed entirely on me.
He stopped two feet in front of me.
He smelled of dark wet earth, leather, and extinguished ashes.
His pale gray eyes dropped to my white knuckles, gripping the torn silk of my dress.
He did not look at my exposed chest.
Greg slowly transferred his cane to his left hand.
He unfastened the single button of his heavy black overcoat and shrugged it off.
Without a word, he draped the heavy wool coat over my shoulders.
The weight of it almost buckled my knees.
It swallowed my upper half completely, hiding the shame.
I looked up into his scarred face.
He told me to hold the lapels.
I rasped out that I didn’t do what Tyler said.
“I know,” Greg said.
Without asking for my version of events, Greg slowly faced the silent ballroom.
A sweeping gaze over the crowd followed.
It landed squarely on Tyler, who had gone completely pale.
Greg struck the silver head of his cane against the floorboard once.
The sharp crack sounded like a bone snapping.
He dismantled Tyler with a few quiet, brutal words about his debts and his clumsy advances.
My father rushed forward, trembling and pathetic.
Greg looked at my father with cold assessment.
He demanded my hand in marriage.
