The Pauper Prince's Vow

Isabella

The champagne flute is cold against my fingers, a fragile anchor in a sea of ghosts. This was supposed to be my party. My life. Eight years of my life, culminating in a celebration under these very crystal chandeliers, in the penthouse Julian and I picked out together.

Now, another woman stands beside him, her hand resting proprietarily on his chest. My stepsister, Chloe. Her belly is a gentle, smug swell beneath the silk of her white dress. A dress that looks suspiciously like a wedding gown.

My stomach churns with a toxic mix of alcohol and bile. A ghost at the feast. That’s what I am. A walking, breathing cautionary tale for the city’s elite, all of whom are pretending not to stare.

“Izzy, darling.”

Chloe’s voice is like poisoned honey. She glides over, her smile a perfect, predatory curve. She places a hand over her bump, a gesture that is anything but maternal. It’s a claim. A trophy.

“I’m so glad you came,” she says, her eyes flicking over my simple black dress. It’s the only thing I own that still felt like mine. “We were worried you wouldn’t. It means so much that you’re here to support us.”

I take a long swallow of champagne. The bubbles burn. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Chloe. I’ve always enjoyed a good work of fiction.”

Her smile tightens for a fraction of a second. “Oh, Izzy. Always so sharp. That’s what Julian and I love about you.” She leans closer, her perfume, a cloying gardenia, suffocating me. “Honestly, I was a mess when we found out. I kept telling Julian, what will Bella think? She’s my sister. But love… well, it’s just not something you can control, is it?”

My grip on the glass is so tight I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. “No. Some things are harder to control than others. Loyalty, for instance. Decency.”

She lets out a little laugh, a tinkling sound that grates on my last nerve. “You’re hurt. I get it. But this baby… this baby is a blessing. It just forced us to be honest about our feelings. Feelings we’d been hiding for a very, very long time.”

The implication hangs in the air between us, thick and ugly. That this wasn’t a mistake, a one-time betrayal. It was a long-running affair, conducted while I planned a future with a man who was sleeping with my stepsister.

Julian appears behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her temple. He looks at me, his handsome face a mask of practiced pity. The same face that told me he loved me a thousand times. The same face that watched me pack my things from our apartment without a flicker of remorse.

“Bella,” he says, his voice soft. Patronizing. “I’m glad you’re here. It shows real maturity.”

“Does it?” I ask, my voice flat. “Or does it show I have a morbid curiosity to see how far the fall from grace actually is?”

Julian’s jaw clenches. He never liked it when I fought back. He preferred me pliable. Adoring. The perfect accessory for the Vance family empire.

“That’s not fair,” he says. “What happened between us… we just grew apart. Eight years is a long time. We wanted different things.”

“I wanted you,” I say, the words tasting like ash. “Apparently you wanted my replacement. An upgrade with fewer miles on the odometer.”

Chloe makes a wounded sound, pressing her face into Julian’s shoulder. “Julian, she’s being cruel.”

“She’s just lashing out,” he soothes, stroking her hair. He looks at me over her head. “We really do want you to be happy, Bella. You deserve to find someone. Someone who’s a better fit.”

There it is. The final, condescending nail in the coffin of our life together. He’s not just leaving me; he’s critiquing me. Releasing me into the wild like a pet that’s no longer suitable for his lifestyle.

“Don’t worry about me, Julian,” I say, draining my glass and setting it on a passing waiter’s tray with a decisive click. “I’m a survivor.”

I turn and walk away before they can see the tremor in my hands. I push through the clusters of whispering guests, their pitying glances like tiny needles on my skin. I need another drink. I need five more.

At the far end of the ballroom, away from the main crush, is a smaller, quieter bar. I lean against the cool marble, the noise of the party fading to a dull roar. The city glitters outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, a million tiny, indifferent lights.

“Another champagne, please,” I tell the bartender.

“Make it a whiskey,” a low voice says beside me. “Macallan 18. Neat. She’s had enough bubbles for one night.”

I turn. He’s leaning against the bar, not looking at me but at the room, his posture relaxed but radiating a stillness that commands attention. He wasn’t here before. I would have noticed. Dressed in a flawlessly tailored black suit, a stark contrast to the navy and grey favored by Julian’s circle, he looks like a predator who has wandered into a cage of canaries. His hair is dark, his jaw is sharp, and his eyes, when they finally slide to meet mine, are the color of old secrets.

There is no pity in his gaze. Only assessment. An unnerving, penetrating focus that sees right through the facade I’ve carefully constructed.

“I can order my own drinks,” I say, my voice sharper than I intend.

“You can,” he agrees, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. “But you don’t want more champagne. You want something that burns.”

The bartender places the glass of amber liquid in front of me. The man pushes it gently toward my hand. His fingers are long, his knuckles clean, a simple, heavy silver ring on his pinky finger the only adornment.

I hesitate for a second, then pick up the glass. The whiskey is smooth, fiery, a welcome shock to my system. It clears away some of the champagne-fueled fog.

“Thank you,” I manage, the words feeling inadequate.

He gives a slight nod, taking a sip of his own drink. We stand in silence for a moment, an island of quiet in the swirling party.

“You look like you’d rather be anywhere but here,” he observes, his eyes back on the crowd.

“An astute observation,” I reply, taking another sip of whiskey. “And you?”

“I’m exactly where I need to be.”

The answer is strange. Confident. Final. It makes me curious.

“Business?” I ask.

“Something like that.” His gaze sweeps the room, pausing for a fraction of a second on Julian, who is now holding court by the fireplace, Chloe clinging to his arm. “You know the groom?”

“I used to think so.”

He turns his head fully toward me then, and the full force of his attention is staggering. It’s like the rest of the room ceases to exist. “And the bride?”

“She’s my stepsister.”

A flicker of something—understanding, maybe even dark amusement—crosses his features. He doesn’t offer condolences. He doesn’t say he’s sorry. He just holds my gaze, and in that moment, I feel seen. Not as the jilted fiancée, not as the poor, pathetic Bella Greer. But as a woman holding a glass of whiskey in a room full of enemies.

A reckless, desperate idea begins to form in the ruins of my heart. It’s born of humiliation and fueled by scotch. I will not leave this party alone. I will not go home to my empty apartment and cry into my pillow. I will not be their victim tonight.

I will be the woman who walked out with him.

I straighten up, drawing a deep breath. The alcohol has burned away my fear, leaving behind a cold, hard resolve.

“I have a proposition for you,” I say, my voice steady.

One of his dark eyebrows arches. “I’m listening.”

“You look as bored as I am. This party is a waste of a good suit.” I gesture with my head toward the exit. “Get me out of here.”

I expect him to question me. To laugh. To ask who I am. He does none of those things. He simply studies my face, his expression unreadable, searching for something in my eyes. He must find it, because a slow, dangerous smile touches his lips.

“Alright,” he says.

He places his empty glass on the bar and turns to me, extending his hand. “My name is Chase.”

I place my hand in his. His grip is firm, warm, sending a jolt straight up my arm. “Bella.”

“Well, Bella,” he says, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t release my hand. Instead, he laces his fingers through mine and starts walking, cutting a clean path through the crowd. People turn to watch us, their conversations faltering. The whispers follow us like a wave. I hold my head high, my fingers tightening around his.

We walk directly past the main group. I can feel Julian’s eyes on us. I can practically hear the furious hiss from Chloe.

I don’t look at them. I keep my eyes fixed on the doors, on the promise of escape. Chase’s presence is a shield. A declaration. He puts his free hand on the small of my back, a simple, possessive gesture that sets my skin on fire.

We don’t stop until we are in the private elevator, the polished brass doors sliding shut, encasing us in a silent, intimate space. The muffled sounds of the party die away.

Alone with him, my heart hammers against my ribs. I’ve just left my ex-fiancé’s engagement party on the arm of a complete stranger. A beautiful, intimidating stranger who looks at me like he knows every secret I’ve ever kept.

The elevator begins its smooth descent.

He releases my hand and turns to face me. The space feels suddenly smaller, charged with unspoken energy. “Second thoughts?” he asks, his voice a low murmur.

I lift my chin, meeting his intense gaze in the mirrored wall. “Not a single one.”