Chapter 8 - The Toast of Liberation
Without waiting for Eleanor, Evelyn, or Abigail to hurl another insult, Gladys raised her champagne glass toward them in a slow, elegant gesture. She offered a polite, silent toast, turned sharply on her heel, and walked back across the cobblestone terrace.
The heavy oak French doors swung shut behind her, instantly muttering the hysterical wails of her relatives into a faint, distant hum.
Inside the ballroom, the atmosphere was thick with warmth, laughter, and the rich scent of roasting herbs and blooming white roses. String lights cast a golden, amber glow across the polished wooden floor where guests were beginning to gather for the evening dance.
As Gladys walked toward her table, Mark stood up, meeting her halfway. He didn't need to ask what had happened outside; the quiet, fierce satisfaction in Gladys's eyes told him everything he needed to know. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close.
"Is it handled?" Mark murmured against her hair.
"It's finished," Gladys whispered, resting her head against his chest. "Completely finished."
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Across the room, the band transitioned into a smooth, romantic waltz. Oliver extended his hand, and Kiera placed her palm in his, stepping onto the center of the dance floor. As they began to turn—slowly, gracefully, completely lost in each other—the surrounding guests broke into heartfelt cheers and applause.
Kiera’s face was illuminated by a pure, radiant happiness that had nothing to do with performance, approval, or comparison. She was, at long last, the undisputed center of her own universe.
