Chapter 116

Iris

My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water as I struggle to come up with a response. The tabloid article glares up at me from Arthur’s phone screen, the photo clearly showing me at the grocery store, phone pressed to my ear.

“I overheard Iris, the newfound mate of the Alpha President, on the phone at the expensive grocery store downtown today,” the article reads. “And what do you know? Her card declined twice and she called someone for help—she kept saying the name ‘Caleb’, a name that’s all too familiar in the life of the Alpha President. It must have been Caleb Willford.”

I feel like I’m going to be sick.

“First of all,” the article goes on, “why is she calling Caleb instead of Alpha Arthur if she’s struggling financially? Second, why is she shopping in upscale stores if her funds are so short? And finally… Why isn’t the Alpha President taking care of his mate?”

“Arthur, I can explain—”

“I’d like to hear it,” he says, and there’s something dangerous in the calmness of his tone. “Because you refused my financial help time and time again, and suddenly, Caleb, your new ‘friend’, is giving you money for groceries.”

I take a deep breath. This isn’t how I wanted to tell him, but I have no choice now. “There’s something I need to tell you. About Caleb, about me, about—”

Suddenly, before I can finish, the doorbell rings.

My head whips toward the door. “That can’t be right. It’s only two o’clock. The party doesn’t start until six.”

Arthur’s jaw clenches as the doorbell rings again. With a frustrated sigh, he strides to the door and yanks it open.

Leonard and Wendy stand in the hallway, dressed impeccably as always.

“Arthur,” Leonard says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “We thought we’d come early to help set up.”

My stomach drops. Help set up? They’re four hours early, and I’m still in my casual clothes with no makeup, my hair in a messy bun, and not even a single appetizer prepared.

Still, I hold my head high, refusing to let them see me crack.

“How… thoughtful,” I manage, forcing a smile. “Please, come in.”

Arthur shoots me a look that promises we will continue our conversation later, but immediately shifts into host mode. “Mother, Father, why don’t you make yourselves comfortable in the living room? Iris was just about to start preparing.”

“Oh, we can help,” Wendy offers, but there’s something in her tone that suggests she expects me to decline.

“That’s very kind, but I’ve got everything under control,” I lie smoothly. “Arthur, would you mind showing them the new painting I hung last week?”

He catches my meaning and nods, steering his parents away while I grab my grocery bags and practically sprint to the kitchen.

Four hours. I have four hours of prep time compressed into maybe thirty minutes before they’ll expect drinks and appetizers and a perfect hostess. This feels deliberate—it has to be. They came this early on purpose just to see me squirm. The revelation makes my hands shake as I unpack the groceries, mentally reorganizing my entire cooking timeline.

Well, I won’t let them see me suffer. My party is going to be a success. I’ve planned too hard for this to let it flop, and I’m not about to let Arthur’s parents walk all over me or my son again.

First things first: appetizers. I throw together a quick bruschetta, chopping tomatoes and basil at lightning speed. While the bread toasts, I arrange the fancy cheeses and crackers on a platter, adding grapes, fresh strawberries, and fig jam for color. The salmon gets a quick marinade before going in the oven, and I start the reduction sauce for the chicken simultaneously.

Multitasking like a madwoman, I somehow manage to get everything cooking or marinating within twenty minutes. The kitchen fills with delicious aromas, and despite the chaos, I feel a surge of pride. It’s actually coming together.

“Excuse me,” I call out, poking my head into the living room where Arthur is valiantly entertaining his parents. “I just need to change quickly. Arthur, could you check on the bruschetta in five minutes?”

He nods with a practiced smile, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the questions still burning in his eyes.

I race to my bedroom and tear through my closet. The dress I’d planned to wear—a sophisticated navy blue sheath—hangs ready, but now I second-guess it. Too formal? Not formal enough?

Fuck it; there’s no time to debate. I shimmy into it, grateful that it doesn’t require complicated fastenings.

My makeup next. Skipping foundation, I opt for simple eyeshadow, mascara, and a touch of blush. My hands tremble slightly as I apply my lipstick, but I manage not to smear it. My hair, however, is a little trickier—the messy bun won’t do, but there’s no time for the elaborate updo I’d planned. I settle for a sleek low ponytail, securing it with a pearl clip.

For jewelry, I choose a pair of simple pearl earrings along with a delicate white gold necklace. After a spritz of perfume, I actually look nice. Pretty, even. And only a little nerve-wracked.

And then I’m rushing back to the kitchen just as the timer goes off for the bruschetta.

Somehow, miraculously, everything is ready when the other guests begin arriving. The salmon is perfectly flaky, the chicken is tender with its cherry reduction glistening on top. Even Leonard’s kiwi cocktails turn out beautifully, the pale green liquid looking elegant in crystal glasses. I don’t have time to sip mine as I’m bustling around, but the other guests exclaim that it’s delicious.

“Iris, you outdid yourself,” Leonard says for the third time, which surprises me. “This cocktail is wonderful. Really, you must try it.”

I manage a smile. “Thank you, Leonard. I’m glad you like it. I’ll have a sip soon.”

Leonard looks a little perturbed, but doesn’t mention it again. And so the night goes on without a hitch.

But the tension between Arthur and me is palpable. Every time I try to catch him alone, someone needs a drink refill or wants to compliment the party. Miles also bumped his head at Alice’s place while playing a little too hard and keeps tugging on my skirt to ask quietly for a comforting kiss on the spot where it hurts.

Caleb’s arrival only makes things worse—Arthur’s jaw tightens visibly when they shake hands, and I know his blood is boiling with suspicion and anger.

The party passes in a blur. I play the perfect hostess, making sure my guest’s glasses are never empty, that the conversation never lags. But inside, I’m dying. The secret weighs heavier with each passing minute, made worse by Arthur’s occasional pointed looks.

Finally, as dessert is served, I decide it’s time for my toast. I prepared an entire speech beforehand, one that I hope will subtly plant the seeds for my future public debut as a Willford—something about family, acceptance, that sort of thing.

Taking a tiny sip of the kiwi cocktail to steel myself, I stand, tapping my glass gently with a spoon. The conversations die down as everyone turns to look at me.

“Thank you all for coming tonight,” I begin with a practiced smile. Shoulders straight, neck long, face soft. Just like Caleb taught me. He gives me a small thumbs-up from the back of the room. “I wanted to bring everyone together because family is so important, and there are things about family that—”

My throat suddenly constricts. The words stick, refusing to come out. I try to swallow, to push past whatever’s blocking my airway, but it’s like my throat has sealed shut.

Panic floods through me as I struggle to breathe. The room starts to spin, faces blurring together. I see Arthur rising from his chair, concern replacing the earlier tension in his expression. Caleb is on his feet too, reaching toward me.

Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. My lungs burn, desperate for air that won’t come. The glass slips from my fingers, shattering on the floor.

The last thing I see before darkness claims me is Arthur lunging forward, his mouth forming my name.

Then… nothing.