Chapter 146

Iris

“Hello?” Veronica’s voice crackles through the intercom.

“Hi, it’s Iris. Iris Will—” I stop myself, realizing how stupid I sound. She knows who I am. “Caleb gave me your address. I was hoping I could talk to you about something.”

There’s a brief pause, and I wonder if she’s going to turn me away. But then the gate buzzes and begins to slide open. “Come on up, darling. Penthouse floor.”

The lobby of her building is pristine and minimalist, all sleek marble and chrome. A uniformed doorman nods at me as I head for the elevator. As I ride up to the top floor, my stomach twists with nerves. What if she laughs at my proposal? What if she thinks I’m an idiot for even trying to organize something like this?

The elevator doors slide open directly into her penthouse, no hallway or separate entrance required. I step out into what looks like a magazine spread.

Veronica’s apartment is open concept, with floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a panoramic view of the city. The furniture is sleek and minimal and painfully white, which seems like a distant dream for a mother. If I had white furniture, it would be anything but white in about five seconds.

And the art—there’s so much of it. Paintings that I recognize as works by some of the most prestigious contemporary artists hang on the walls. Sculptures that probably cost more than a year’s rent at my old apartment are displayed on minimalist pedestals.

And there, in the center of the main room, sits a gleaming black grand piano, positioned so that whoever plays it can look out over the city.

“Like what you see?”

I turn toward the voice to find Veronica descending a floating staircase, looking like she just stepped out of a magazine herself. She’s wearing a silky, champagne-colored nightgown that cascades all the way to the floor. Over it, she wears a sheer robe with feather trim around the cuffs and hem. Her hair cascades down her back in perfect waves, and even without makeup, her skin glows.

“I’m sorry if I interrupted you getting ready to go somewhere,” I say quickly.

“Oh, I’m actually taking the day off,” she says airily. “Sorry for my appearance. I look like a mess.”

I curl my lip involuntarily before I can stop myself. Sure. She looks like a total mess. Meanwhile, I’m standing here in jeans and my yellow cardigan with the hole in it, hair thrown up in a messy bun, probably with breakfast crumbs still on my shirt from Miles’s enthusiastic eating habits this morning.

Before I can say anything, Veronica tilts her head, noticing the bundle of paperwork under my arm. “Is that from Wellington Academy?” she asks.

I glance down, realizing I grabbed the enrollment paperwork along with my laptop by accident, then nod. “Yes—Arthur and I decided to enroll Miles. He’ll be starting school in a couple of weeks.”

Veronica’s lips curve. “That’s wonderful. It’s a very prestigious school.”

“It’s close to our home, so Miles can walk to school when he gets older,” I say, not that I need to justify it to her. Finally, I clear my throat and get to the point. “Veronica, I’m here because Caleb mentioned that you run the Ordan Public School Fund.”

“Ah, yes,” she says, moving toward the kitchen area. “Would you like some tea? Coffee?”

“Tea would be nice, thanks.”

She fills an electric kettle and takes out two delicate porcelain cups. “So, what about the Fund?”

“I’m working on a project to support arts education in public schools,” I explain, setting my laptop bag down on the counter. “A fundraiser, specifically. And I was hoping to get some advice from someone with experience.”

Veronica’s perfectly shaped eyebrows rise slightly. “How ambitious of you. I’d be happy to help however I can.” She sounds genuine, which only makes me feel worse about my instinctive dislike of her. “Tell me more about your idea.”

I pull out my laptop and open the presentation I’ve been working on. “It’s still in the early stages, but I was thinking of organizing a children’s day with games, art stations, food, that sort of thing. People can donate as they see fit, and the proceeds would go directly to school art programs.”

“May I?” she asks, gesturing to my laptop.

I nod, turning the screen toward her. She scrolls through my presentation quietly, one hand delicately holding her teacup. I watch her face for any sign of judgment, but she remains professionally neutral.

“This is a good start,” she finally says, and my heart lifts until she continues. “But there are several key elements you’re missing.”

For the next thirty minutes, Veronica methodically dissects my proposal. She points out gaps in my budget planning, questions the feasibility of my timeline, suggests that my target audience is too broad, and notes that my marketing strategy doesn’t leverage social media effectively.

“And you’ll want to think about corporate sponsorships,” she adds, scrolling back to my budget slide. “Individual donations are important, but having a few big companies on board will give your event credibility and financial stability.”

I nod, taking notes on a pad of paper and trying not to let my disappointment show. It’s not that she’s being mean—quite the opposite, actually. She’s actually being extremely helpful.

But with each point she makes, I feel more and more out of my depth, more and more like an amateur. “Inadequate” would be putting it lightly.

Once we’re finished, my head is spinning. Somehow, Veronica looks even more composed than before. She slides my laptop back to me with a graceful smile. “I hope that helped,” she says, setting aside her empty teacup. “I’m so scatterbrained today, I fear I didn’t make much sense at times.”

The thing that pisses me off about that comment, just like the “I’m a mess” comment, is the fact that she was utterly perfect in every single fucking way that whole time.

But instead of saying that, I just offer her a smile. “Thank you for taking the time to look at this. I know you must be busy.”

“Always,” she sighs dramatically, but with a grin. “Oh, before you go, I wanted to mention something.”

I pause, laptop half in my bag. “Yes?”

“I saw those ridiculous articles about us being at odds,” she says with a light laugh. “Such nonsense, isn’t it? As if we can’t both exist in the same space without being rivals.”

I force a smile. “It’s just the media trying to create drama.”

“Perhaps. Although it does make you think,” she murmurs, tapping her chin, “how… different things might have been in another life.”

“What do you mean?”

Veronica shrugs, the movement causing her robe to slip slightly off one shoulder. She adjusts it casually. “Oh, you know. Maybe in another life, our roles were reversed. Perhaps I was the mate and wife of Arthur, and you were… well.” She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “The lonely spinster.”

I freeze, unsure what to say to that. What the hell does that even mean? Is she implying that if she had been the one to enter the contract marriage with Arthur and not Selina, that I wouldn’t even be in his life right now?

“Fate is strange that way, isn’t it?” she continues when I don’t respond. “How easily things could have gone differently.”

I clear my throat, finally managing to find my voice. “I suppose so.” I zip up my laptop bag. “Thanks again for the help. I should get going.”

Veronica walks me to the elevator, and even in private, I swear her feet don’t touch the floor when she moves. I almost want to lift up that expensive silk dress to see if she’s gliding on a scaly tail down there rather than feet.

“Anytime, cousin,” she purrs. “And do let me know how the fundraiser planning goes. I’m always happy to offer more… guidance.”

The way she says “guidance” makes it sound like I’ll need a lot of it. Which, to be fair, is pretty true.

“I will,” I say, stepping into the elevator. I manage a tight smile as the doors close between us, finally allowing my face to fall into a scowl the moment I’m alone.