Beside the man sat a woman at least two decades older than him, her makeup flawless, nestled against his shoulder with intimate affection. Their closeness left little doubt about their relationship.
Mrs. Bishop followed Marguerite’s gaze and slowly turned her head. The moment she took in the scene before her, her eyes widened and a flush of furious red spread across her face.
She slammed her hands down on the table so hard that the wine glasses rattled, spilling crimson drops onto the pristine tablecloth.
Her voice rang out, shrill and cutting through the noise of the banquet hall like a blade. “Cedric Bishop, you bastard!”
Marguerite let out a derisive snort, then set her own glass down with graceful finality, the crystal base striking the table with a clear, ringing note.
She straightened, preparing to leave this place that had suddenly become suffocating.
But as she turned, she found herself face to face with Fiona and Benjamin.
Fiona was dressed in a white summer dress, looking as innocent as a daisy. She hurried over, slipped her arm through Marguerite’s, and smiled up at her with wide, guileless eyes.
“Marguerite, Ben hasn’t actually agreed to marry you yet. If you go around telling everyone otherwise, people might get the wrong idea,” she cooed, her voice syrup-sweet but sharp as a needle, piercing Marguerite’s heart.
Benjamin stood beside them, arms crossed and brows furrowed, clear annoyance clouding his features.
He strode forward, glaring at Marguerite. “Marguerite, I told you we’d get married, but not now. Can’t you just be reasonable? Why do you have to make a scene like this?”
“If you’d just apologize to the Howells and admit you were wrong, I’ll let your little tantrum slide.”

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