C19, PT. 1

Through an arched doorway was a crowd of fashionably dressed people circulating beneath a massive crystal chandelier. Servers in white tuxes moved through the crush, offering flutes of white wine and champagne. The Gilded Age mansion was true to its name with tons of gold detailing, intricate carvings, yellow marble, and lions flanking the grand staircase. If it wasn’t for the modern dresses, she could be convinced they had stepped into a time capsule.

A twinkling Christmas tree that had to be at least twelve feet high stood beside an onyx fireplace. A second story landing allowed people to watch the activity from above or admire the life-sized statues, silk tapestries, and regal oil paintings that graced the walls in gold frames.

“Jasmine.”

She tore her eyes from the festivities and focused on Roth. A woman with her hair pulled into a severe bun stood at his side, wearing a kind smile.

“Your coat, ma’am.”

When she hesitated, Roth began to undo the buttons himself. He held her gaze as he slipped the coat off and handed it over. She self-consciously tugged on her neckline, even though it would do nothing to cover her back, which had broken out in goosebumps despite the warm air ruffling her curls. If she’d known what the dress looked like, she would have asked for hair extensions instead of getting a trim, which left her with no natural shield.

The door behind them opened, bringing in a cold blast that made her gasp. A distinguished couple in their fifties entered. The woman had a pleasant smile on her face, which shifted as she took in Jasmine’s naked back. The man at her side gave Jasmine a broad smile and a wink.

“Merry Christmas,” he drawled.

She made a wild grab for her coat, but Roth shuffled her aside, so the newcomers could hand over their winter gear. Her heart felt as if it had wings and was banging around in her chest, trying to get free.

“Roth.” Her voice was hoarse with strain.

He pulled her into the fray. He didn’t look at the rooms to the right or left, but headed straight for the stairs to get to the upper floor. The quickest way was through the crowd, so that’s what he did—cutting through the loose circles without sparing anyone a glance. She felt a flash of alarm. This wasn’t the way they should enter the Trentham Ball… This wasn’t how anyone should enter any function, but especially not here. She squeezed his hand to get his attention, but he didn’t slow down or look back at her. She pasted a smile on her face to hide her chagrin.

Conversation stuttered as they passed. Was it her imagination, or was everyone looking at them? Her tattoo throbbed as if she’d just been under the needle.

Roth navigated around and between those on the steps. She blocked out the intense scrutiny and admired the incredible old world details, dozens of flickering candles in gold candelabras, the painted ceiling, and the artwork that belonged in the Met. She felt as if she walked onto a movie set, in a time period she would have preferred over this one.

Once they gained the second story, she realized everyone was mingling in front of a ballroom, unlike any she had ever seen. The whole room glittered, as did everyone in it. She had never seen so much gold in one place. It was palatial and over the top, and so fitting for this mansion.

Her writer’s mind took flight, cataloguing details, and trying to imprint as much of this as possible in her memory for future reference. She wanted to pull out her phone and start filming like a tourist because she was sure she would never see anything like this ever again.

“Is she the one who had the affair?”

A woman’s voice rose above the din, loud and sharp, so she couldn’t miss it.

Her enchantment with her surroundings shattered. For the first time, she allowed her eyes to sweep the crowd. It wasn’t in her mind. They were the center of attention. People openly stared, gawked, or glared. She recognized some faces—Mrs. Pearson, the wife of one of her dad’s business partners, who lived at 432 Park Avenue. Mrs. Pearson looked outraged. Whether that was due to her dress or her presence, she wasn’t sure. There was also Jovan Delgado, one of her father’s cronies. His scornful look, so reminiscent of her father, made her blood run cold.

She heard murmurs of their last names and then the inevitable, “Ford Baldwin.”

The shame she swore she wouldn’t allow herself to feel began to spread like a virus, locking up her muscles so it was hard to move. Memories of her childhood, of being publicly humiliated not just by her father, but his peers, made her feet feel like they were leaden weights. The feeling of impending doom she tried to smother throughout the day engulfed her, taking her breath away.

She stopped and yanked on her hand as Roth tried to step into the ballroom. He whirled, his expression impatient and grim, but whatever he saw on her face cleared his instantly. Panicked tears filled her eyes as her hand went to her throat, which began to swell. One arm gathered her close while the other gripped her nape and forced her face into his shoulder.

“Don’t panic.”

Her hands twisted in his jacket as she tried to control her ragged breathing. Everything she had suppressed over the past week geysered up, overwhelming her at the worst possible moment. She couldn’t be falling apart at the Trentham Ball, in front of all these people. She was supposed to be playing a sophisticated, untouchable bitch, but they weren’t even five minutes into their performance, and she was fucking up.

Roth backed her into a corner and stood in front of her, blocking everyone’s view. The edges of her vision blurred as her head swam.

He leaned down and butted his face against hers. “Breathe, princess.”

“I-I’m trying,” she gasped.

“Don’t let them get in your head.”

It wasn’t just them. It was him and the ghost of her father telling her she was going to let them down. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she confessed.

“You can.”

When she shook her head, he pressed his lips to her temple.

“You’re a Hennessy, the heir to a dynasty. No one can make you feel inferior if you don’t let them.”

Rough fingertips skimmed her back, distracting her from some jackass off to the left, who was asking how quickly they married after her father died.

“This is what Maximus groomed you for,” Roth growled. “You belong here more than me.”

“I never belonged here,” she muttered as he palmed her ass.

“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t belong.”

He had a point there.

**This is a raw draft of Bitter Confessions. Please do not share or distribute.

Copyright © 2024 Mia Knight. All Rights Reserved.