My Mother Forced Me to Attend a High-Society Ball — The CEO’s Ultimatum Changed Everything
Part 2
The Duke’s hand remained suspended in the empty air.
His expression did not change to fury or shock.
It simply froze.
It was as if the complex internal gears operating his aristocratic facade had suddenly jammed.
He stared at me blankly.
Behind him, someone dropped a champagne flute.
The crystal shattered against the marble floor with a bright, violent crack.
The sound broke the paralyzing spell.
A collective low-frequency hum erupted from the crowd.
It was the terrifying, unified whisper of four hundred predators smelling fresh blood.
Brenda’s fingernails pierced the silk of my sleeve, breaking the skin of my arm.
What did you say, she hissed.
Say yes right now, you stupid girl.
But I was already moving.
Panic, cold and sharp as cracked ice, flooded my veins.
Shoving past my mother, I blindly pushed through the wall of bodies.
The crowd parted for me now, shrinking back in sheer horror as if my sudden madness were contagious.
Reaching the heavy oak doors leading to the East Wing corridors, I quickly slipped through.
The heavy door slammed shut behind me, cutting off the loud, buzzing hive of the ballroom.
The silence of the corridor hit me like a physical blow.
I leaned against the cool plaster wall.
My legs finally gave out.
I slid down until I was sitting on the floor, a heap of crushed green silk.
I pressed my bare, trembling fingers against my sternum.
I was gasping for air.
Tears of pure frustration and terror pricked my eyes.
I had just publicly humiliated the most powerful man in the country.
I rested my forehead on my knees.
I waited for my mother to burst through the doors and drag me back by the hair.
Instead, I heard the slow, measured click of heavy boot heels.
The footsteps stopped about ten feet away from me.
I froze completely.
I am under the impression, a low, rough voice said into the quiet, that when a woman flees a ballroom, she seeks out a garden, not a dusty hallway.
Brian had followed me.
I lifted my head slowly.
He looked down at my crumpled form.
He didn’t look angry.
He looked entirely baffled.
Why did you just subject me to the most spectacular public humiliation this side of the continent, he asked.
Because I couldn’t breathe, I whispered.
Because if I had to smile at you while you looked at me like a chore, my heart would have stopped.
He stared at me for a long moment.
You are entirely correct, he said quietly.
I did not want to dance.
He shifted his weight and sat fully back on the dirty floorboard right across from me.
I detest the waltz, he muttered.
Then why did you ask me, I asked.
Because you were standing near the exit, he replied dryly.
He loosened his cravat, exposing a fraction of his throat.
He told me my honesty was the first genuine thing he had experienced in months.
He noticed my bleeding foot and tossed me his pristine white handkerchief to bind the blister.
Just then, Brenda burst into the corridor, her face a mask of pale terror.
Brian stood up smoothly.
He lied seamlessly, claiming he had felt faint and I had heroically assisted him.
He escorted us home in his carriage, silencing my mother’s wrath.
The next morning, three heavy knocks pounded against our front door.
Our footman entered carrying a small silver tray holding a wooden box and a sealed letter.
My mother tore the seal open, her face draining of color as she looked at the heavy black ink, and I realized he wasn’t letting me go—but what exactly was he coming to collect?
