With effortless grace, Colette stepped forward, a delicate crystal glass of wine in her hand, her expression a picture of practiced innocence.
She smiled at me, her lips curling with an unreadable amusement, then glided closer, her eyes feigning warmth.
“Nadine,” she sang sweetly, slipping her arm through mine as if we were old friends, as if she had not just stabbed me in the back. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Apparently, you were here all along.”
Her voice was a melody of deception, gentle enough to fool the onlookers but sharp enough to make my stomach twist.
I jerked my arm away. “Stop pretending, Colette.”
But she only gripped me tighter, her nails digging into my skin in warning.
I could see the eyes of the other guests lingering on us, watching, curious—why was Colette Birkin, the golden child of the elite, treating me, the outsider, with such familiarity?
They did not know that every touch, every word from Colette was an act.
“What do you want now?” I asked her in a low but piercing tone.
Her smile never wavered as she leaned in, her breath warm against my ear.