Evelyn's sobs cut through the murmuring crowd like a blade dipped in honey—sweet, calculated, and aimed to wound. The moment Robert and Grace slipped into the garden terrace for a private talk, she crumpled to the floor in a rustle of silk, her hands pressed against her face, shoulders shaking with picture-perfect despair.
"Oh no, poor Evelyn," one of the aunts gasped, rushing forward with fluttering hands. "She's just a child, really. So much pressure…"
Within seconds, Evelyn was surrounded—sympathetic arms encircling her, worried voices cooing comfort into her ear, dabbing at her cheeks with linen handkerchiefs. From where Lottie stood near the French doors, she observed the spectacle with a composed stillness, a porcelain mask of polite detachment. The night air pressed cool against her skin, the faint scent of roses drifting from the garden beds beyond. Mason drifted to her side, a ghost of a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.
"She's good," Mason murmured, his voice pitched low for Lottie alone. His elbow brushed hers lightly, grounding her in the moment. "But they're not buying it like they used to."
Lottie didn't glance his way. Her eyes remained locked on Evelyn, watching the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth, the practiced quiver in her shoulders. The desperation was real now, not just performance—but the performance masked it better than anything else could. The glimmer of sweat at Evelyn's temple, the way her fingers clenched just a heartbeat too tight into the fabric of her dress, the flicker of her eyes scanning the crowd, seeking, measuring—it was all laid bare to Lottie.
"She's slipping," Lottie said softly, as if speaking the words aloud would anchor her own calm. Mason gave a subtle nod, his gaze flicking over the crowd.
Amy hovered at the edge, lips pressed in a thin line, eyes darting nervously between Evelyn and the guests. Lottie caught the quick flicker of doubt in Amy's expression, the wavering that had been growing for weeks. The air hummed with tension, the low buzz of whispered conversations threading through the terrace like electricity. A hush rippled through the assembly as Evelyn's PR team emerged, sliding through the crowd with the smooth efficiency of sharks cutting through still water.
"Thank you all for your concern," one of the polished assistants cooed, hands raised in a calming gesture. "Evelyn is so grateful for your support in these trying times. We've prepared a brief statement to share with the media—"
The faint scrape of a shoe on stone caught Lottie's ear. She tilted her head slightly, noting Amy shifting her weight, fingers twisting at the strap of her purse. The girl's throat worked in a nervous swallow, her shoulders tight with conflict. Lottie's lips curved, just faintly, not enough to be seen by anyone but Mason, who chuckled softly under his breath.
Lottie's phone vibrated against her palm, a faint tickle of tension across her skin. She drew it up with a fluid motion, thumb sweeping over the screen. Adrian's name flashed at the top of the message.
—I'm booking a flight back. Tell me everything.
A pulse of heat rushed through Lottie's chest, tightening like a drawn bowstring. She allowed herself a small, tight smile, invisible behind the cool veil she wore. The final piece was moving back into place.
"Checking in from our champion abroad?" Mason teased under his breath, eyes glinting with mischief. His shoulder brushed lightly against hers in the narrow space between the guests, a brief, grounding pressure.
"Focus, Mason," Lottie murmured, slipping the phone into her clutch. But her heart beat a little faster, a ripple of anticipation tightening low in her stomach. She smoothed a hand down the front of her gown, feeling the whisper of silk under her fingertips, the faintest tremble in her palm.
Outside, Evelyn pressed a trembling hand to her heart, her voice breaking as she addressed the circle of relatives. "I—I only ever wanted to do right by this family," she whispered, lashes spiked with carefully caught tears. "I was trying so hard, and now… now I'm painted as the villain. Please, can't anyone understand?"
A soft chorus of murmured reassurances rose around her, but beneath it ran a different current—Lottie could hear it in the sharp-edged whispers, the barely concealed glances. A woman in a pearl choker murmured behind her fan, "She's always been dramatic." A man near the bar lifted a brow, tilting his glass in a silent, sardonic toast.
Amy drifted closer to Lottie, her steps hesitant, her eyes wide and unsure. She tugged nervously at her sleeve, glancing once toward Evelyn, then back toward Lottie as if torn by invisible strings. "They're… they're talking," she murmured, voice barely audible above the rustle of conversation. "More and more of them. People are doubting."
"Good," Lottie said quietly, not looking away from the stage Evelyn had made of herself. "Let them." Her voice carried a calm steel, smooth as the cool breeze stirring the lanterns overhead. The soft glow of the garden lights painted Evelyn's pale face in delicate gold, casting faint, wavering shadows beneath her lashes.
Leo's message pinged next, the words a cold metric in a storm of emotion.
—Online sentiment split 40/60. Evelyn's trending, but for the wrong reasons.
Mason exhaled a slow, satisfied breath. "The center won't hold much longer," he murmured, glancing toward the cluster of guests. His hand lifted briefly to adjust his cuff, the silver glint of his watch catching the terrace light.
Evelyn's eyes swept the room, and for one brief, raw moment, they locked onto Lottie's. The mask cracked—just a flicker, a flicker only Lottie could see. Desperation, burning at the edges of a collapsing empire. Her lips trembled, a muscle jumped in her jaw, and for the briefest instant, she looked like a child stranded in the wreckage of her own making.
Lottie's fingers flexed at her side, the cool bite of her ring pressing into her skin. There was a flicker of something in her chest—a pang of memory, a distant echo of sisterhood, brittle as old glass. But she straightened her spine, smoothing her features into calm. Mercy would be Evelyn's last illusion.
Across the terrace, Grace emerged from the shadows of the garden, her hand tight on Robert's arm. His jaw was set, mouth a thin, pale line. They moved as if walking a tightrope, their steps slow, measured, charged with unspoken tension. Grace's eyes were red-rimmed, her fingers fluttering once at her throat before falling back to her side. Robert's hand hovered near hers, but didn't quite touch.
Mason leaned in slightly, murmuring into Lottie's ear, "We hold on the next release?"
"Yes," Lottie answered, voice steady. "Let her think she's winning tonight." The words tasted sharp on her tongue, but the strategy was clear. Timing mattered more than mercy.
Amy hesitated. "But—won't that give her time to regroup?" Her voice cracked slightly, the weight of the moment pulling at her nerves.
Lottie finally turned, her cool gaze pinning Amy in place. "Letting her breathe is part of the trap," she said, her voice soft but edged with iron. Amy's lips parted, then pressed shut, a faint tremble in her throat as she nodded.
The terrace filled with low, anxious laughter as Evelyn lifted her face from her hands, dabbing delicately at her eyes. "I just want what's best," she said softly, the words carrying just enough to reach the nearest onlookers. "Even now, I just want peace." Her hand pressed to her chest, fingers splayed, the perfect image of wounded nobility.
Aunt Marianne bent to wrap an arm around her shoulders. "We know, darling. You've always had the family's best interests at heart."
Lottie's mouth curved, a small, sharp crescent of amusement. Best interests. Yes. She'd learned to weaponize those words, and she'd learned to rip them apart. Her breath stirred in the cool night, tasting of lavender and old stone, of long-fought battles and sharper triumphs.
Another vibration at her side. Adrian again.
—I'm coming home. Don't move without me.
For a moment, the garden lights flickered against the darkening sky, casting Evelyn in a pale, wan glow, the last candle sputtering on a cake no one wanted anymore. The faint crackle of distant laughter drifted through the open doors, brittle and sharp, like glass underfoot.
Lottie tipped her head slightly, a queen in waiting, watching her rival beg the crowd for scraps.
"You'll need more than tears this time, sister," she whispered under her breath, the words barely stirring the air.
Inside the house, the muffled sound of glass breaking cracked through the quiet, sharp as a gunshot. Robert and Grace were still behind closed doors—and whatever decision was being made in that room, it would not be softened by Evelyn's staged collapse.
Mason's phone chimed softly. He checked it, a grin blooming across his face, teeth flashing in the low light.
"Board sentiment," he murmured, eyes flicking to Lottie. "Three more shifted. She's bleeding out."
Lottie breathed in, slow and measured, feeling the coil of tension in her spine loosen just a notch. She let her gaze drift back to Evelyn, watching the arms still wrapped around her, the hush of pity still clinging like a cheap perfume. Her own fingers brushed along the edge of her clutch, the cool metal a grounding weight.
And when Evelyn looked up again—when her eyes caught Lottie's, desperate and raw—Lottie lifted one brow, the barest tilt of her head, the unspoken message slicing clean through the dusk.
Checkmate's coming.
As the moon rose over the terrace, soft and cold, Evelyn's smile faltered. And in the silence between camera clicks and whispers, Lottie turned away, her heart hammering, the storm rolling ever closer.