[Inside Étoile—Private Mezzanine, 8:14 PM]
Elle sat stiffly on the velvet chair, her back as straight as the vintage silverware resting beside her untouched plate.
This wasn't supposed to be how the night went.
She glanced at the empty seat across from her—the one Damien had pulled out for her moments ago. Except now, instead of Damien sitting there, in his tailored suit and soft, knowing gaze…
It was her.
Veronica Carter.
Clad in pearls, smugness, and a beige cashmere shawl that practically screamed high-society venom.
Elle kept her head low, refusing to make eye contact. Her fingers clutched the edge of her napkin like it was a lifeline.
Veronica sipped from the fine china cup in front of her, then casually gestured toward Elle's.
"Take a sip, sweetheart," she said, her voice smooth as the French roast.
Elle's lips twitched.
Sweetheart.
Right.
That word only left her mother's lips when she needed something—or was about to ruin something.
