They all knew what came next—the part where I'd yank Effie away, scream at her for faking it, accuse her of stealing Patrick from me.
Then Patrick would lash out, tell me I was being childish, and the whole thing would end with me in tears.
But a moment passed, and I didn't move.
All those years I'd nearly driven myself insane trying to earn one extra look from Patrick Stephens. School, startups, building a media brand. After navigating the cutthroat world of business—after rubbing shoulders with people who shaped policy—
Effie's little stumble?
It was laughable.
"Glad you're not hurt."
My voice was flat, indifferent. I handed a gift bag to one of the staff.
"From my parents, for Mr. and Mrs. Stephens."
Effie's expression soured.
Patrick frowned and glanced at me.
Inside the villa, I noticed the dining room had only four chairs. Mr. Stephens, Mrs. Stephens, and Patrick already accounted for three.
Effie suddenly broke into a smile.
"Oh, sorry, sis. I forgot to mention you were coming too. Your aunt and uncle didn't set a place for you."
"Why are you explaining yourself?"
Patrick turned a cold gaze on me.