Roxanne’s mind was a chaotic whirlwind as she watched Pamela disappear into the crowd.

She shook her head, letting out a sharp exhale that caused her shoulders to sag under the weight of the room. Taking a slow breath, she forced her spine to straighten and locked her eyes onto a group of board members talking in a far corner. She had to move. She had to stay focused.

But as she took her first step forward, a woman smoothly glided into her path, cutting off her escape.

"Hello," the woman said, her crimson lips stretching into a clinical smile that looked like it physically hurt to maintain.

Roxanne froze, the air catching in her throat. Up close, the icy blonde hair and sharp jawline were unmistakable. This was the exact woman who had been leaning into Richard’s arm on the balcony only moments ago. Cara. She must be the fiancée Margaret told her about.

Roxanne felt a sudden, heavy ache in the center of her chest, but she clamped down on it, forcing a polite mask over her features. "Hello," she replied, her voice steady.

The woman extended a hand, her heavy diamond ring catching the harsh light of the crystal chandelier. "I’m Cara," she said, her voice dripping with an effortless lilt. "The fiancée of that fine man over there." She offered a careless gesture toward the far end of the room where Richard stood.

Roxanne didn’t bother to look. She already knew, and the thought made the knot of annoyance twisting inside her gut tighten into something fiercely bitter. "Oh. Congratulations," she said, keeping her tone polite.

Cara’s clinical smile never wavered. "Thank you. You’re settling in well? I hope so," she said, her tone carrying something resembling concern.

Roxanne’s brows furrowed. Oh, she actually sounds nice. Then she nodded. "Yes, thank you."

"Good. Vance Enterprises changes lives. Just don’t mistake your offer for an invitation into Richard’s personal life. It’s not a package deal," Cara added, her smile turning cold.

Roxanne tilted her head, deliberately forcing Cara to say the words out loud. "What do you mean?"

Cara chuckled, a low, condescending sound. "I see you prefer things spelled out for you. Very well. Richard does not come with the offer."

A strange calm washed over Roxanne, washing away the initial shock. She smiled back, her eyes locking onto Cara’s with unblinking resolve. "I read my contract very carefully, Miss Cara, and I fully understand exactly what I am here for. I am here to work. Nothing more."

Cara’s eyes narrowed to sharp slits. She subjected Roxanne to a slow, deliberate head-to-toe inspection, her gaze lingering disdainfully on the drape of Roxanne’s silk dress and the curve of her heels.

But Roxanne held her ground, returning the scrutiny. Cara was elegant in every sense of the word, radiating the unmistakable, effortless scent of old-money privilege. Whoever her family was, they held a powerful leash over the Vance legacy.

Then, Roxanne’s eyes dropped back to the immaculate cut of Cara’s designer gown, and a sudden, suffocating thought filled her mind. Did Richard pick out this dress for her, too? The thought felt like a physical twist of a knife.

"I have loved Richard for twelve years," Cara said, her sharp voice snapping Roxanne’s focus back to reality. "And I have absolutely no intention of losing him to someone who scrambled through the front doors just yesterday."

Roxanne kept her smile pinned in place, though her heart was hammering a furious rhythm against her ribs. "As I just stated, I am here to build a career, not to steal another woman’s man."

Cara studied her face for one last, agonizing beat, and then her entire demeanor suddenly turned freezing cold. The performative warmth vanished. "You are right. I have absolutely nothing to worry about," she murmured, her eyes glinting with malicious triumph. "After all, you still bear another man’s surname. It was lovely to meet you, Mrs. Westbrook."

With that final, parting sting, Cara turned on her heel and glided away, leaving Roxanne standing entirely exposed under the bright lights, reeling from the verbal blow.

Roxanne swallowed hard, the room suddenly spinning. The word Mrs. Westbrook echoed in her ears like a death knell.

She had agreed to be Richard’s woman, but ever since she crossed the threshold of this villa, every single person had ruthlessly reminded her that legally, she still belonged to Christian.

Driven by instinct, her eyes sought out Richard across the crowded room. He was deep in conversation with a group of international investors, completely oblivious to the silent war raging around her.

As if feeling the weight of her gaze, his head turned, his dark eyes locking onto hers. He offered her a warm smile.

Roxanne instantly ripped her eyes away, looking down at the marble floor. I have to avoid him, she thought frantically, her chest heaving. By any means necessary.

Across the room, the smile completely vanished from Richard’s face. His heavy brows pulled together into a tight, dark knot. He abruptly turned back to his guests, his posture turning rigid. "Please, excuse me."

With long strides, he began cutting straight through the sea of socialites toward her, his fists clenched at his sides, his dark gaze pinned entirely on her face.

Just as he was about to reach her side, a heavy brass chime echoed through the ballroom, signaling the official start of the dinner.

The ambient jazz music swelled and then dropped into a soft, muted background hum as the guests began moving toward the massive banquet table. The long mahogany surface was adorned with cascading white orchids, flickering candles, and silver platters of delicacies.

Roxanne didn’t wait for him. She turned sharply and joined the flow of bodies moving toward the table. But Richard was faster. His hand shot out, his large fingers clamping firmly around her upper arm and halting her in her tracks.

"What is wrong?" he demanded, his baritone voice dropping to barely a whisper.

Roxanne looked up, trapped by the sheer intensity in his eyes. They still held the same intense warmth that had slowly become her refuge, but the image of Cara on the balcony flashed in her mind, blinding her with pain.

She glanced past his shoulder and caught Margaret’s disapproving gaze watching them from the head of the table. She turned back to him, her breathing shallow. "Let me go, Richard," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rustle of silk around them. "You are making a scene."