Chapter 176

Vivian's breath caught when Adrian's piercing gaze locked onto hers. The glacial indifference that usually defined his eyes had vanished, replaced by a warmth that made her pulse stutter. "Darling," he murmured, his voice velvet-soft, "you look exhausted. Let me take you somewhere quiet."

Margaret Blackwood, who'd been mid-scolding, froze with her lips parted. The divorce papers were practically signed—why was her son behaving like a newlywed? The affectionate display contradicted everything she'd been told.

Even Bianca's carefully composed mask slipped for a fraction of a second. She'd counted on Vivian's humiliation driving her away. Yet Adrian's possessive behavior suggested he had no intention of releasing his wife.

Vivian stiffened at his uncharacteristic tenderness. "I'm fine, really," she demurred, fingers twisting in her lap. "Don't trouble yourself."

To the assembled guests, it appeared the Blackwood heiress was playing hard to get, reveling in her husband's attention. They braced for Adrian's notorious temper to surface. Instead, he did something that sent shockwaves through the room.

Dragging a gilded chair beside hers, he sat—then pulled Vivian onto his lap with effortless grace. His arm encircled her waist like an iron band. "Then I'll be your chair," he declared, lips brushing her ear.

Vivian shot upright as if electrocuted, only to meet Margaret's arctic glare. Too late. Again.

That withering look sliced through her defenses. Vivian's shoulders hunched instinctively, her gaze dropping to the marble floor where she wished it would swallow her whole.

A tittering laugh broke the tension. "Margaret, your daughter-in-law is such a fragile flower," cooed one of the society matrons, her saccharine smile not reaching her eyes. "My Zinnia? Built like an ox since birth—manages our entire estate single-handedly."

Vivian's spine straightened. Was this woman actually pimping her daughter at a funeral?

Strangely, she felt relief. At least the attention had shifted.

She edged backward, attempting to merge with the damask wallpaper.

Margaret's lips curved in a calculated smile. "Zinnia always was remarkable. Why isn't she here today?"

The woman preened. "Oh, she's in Provence studying patisserie at Le Cordon Bleu. Top of her class, naturally."

"How impressive," Margaret purred. "You must bring her to the manor. Adrian adores French desserts." The subtext hung heavier than the chandeliers.

Adrian chose that moment to rise, adjusting his cufflinks with lethal precision. "Mother really shouldn't trouble herself with my culinary preferences," he said, his voice like shards of ice. "Given how seldom I dine at home."

The temperature in the room plummeted.

What began as a not-so-subtle setup had just been publicly dismantled. The matchmaking attempt now resembled a botched staff recruitment.

Vivian bit her lip to suppress a hysterical laugh. The Blackwood family drama was better than any soap opera.

And she? Merely a pawn in their endless power plays.

Yet as Adrian's fingers brushed the small of her back—a gesture both protective and possessive—she wondered if the game's rules had changed without anyone telling her.