Chapter 477

Did Julian Montclair have feelings for her?

The realization sent a jolt through Vivian Hartley's system, her fingers tightening around her clutch. "I'm Adrian Blackwood's wife," she stated firmly, lifting her chin. "That makes me part of the Blackwood family hierarchy now."

Julian's aristocratic features softened as he withdrew into his luxury sedan. The door closed with a muted thud. "Adrian and I have never seen eye to eye," he admitted, his voice carrying a rare note of vulnerability. "Truthfully, I've never wanted any connection to the Blackwood legacy."

His piercing gaze held hers through the tinted window. "It's... difficult for a man my age to suddenly find himself addressing a woman he once mentored as his senior in family standing."

Vivian studied him intently, the momentary illusion dissipating like morning mist. His eyes showed no hidden affection, only the familiar guardedness she'd always known. Her grip on the clutch gradually loosened.

Heat crept up her neck.

If Julian had ever harbored romantic feelings, he would have confessed during their university days. Back when she'd been just a wide-eyed freshman and he the untouchable senior. The notion that he'd develop feelings now, when she was married to his least favorite relative, bordered on absurd.

She pressed her lips together, chiding herself for the momentary vanity. Age was making her increasingly self-absorbed.

Spotting Vivian's arrival, Giselle Thornton twirled dramatically toward the banquet hall. "Ladies and gentlemen," she announced with theatrical flair, "our reigning campus queen has graced us with her presence. How many broken hearts will we be nursing tonight, now that she's permanently off the market?"

The lively chatter in the private room died instantly as all heads turned toward the entrance.

Time had etched its passage on most of their former classmates' faces - but not Vivian's. Secretly, many had hoped the years would dim her radiance, that their once-unattainable goddess would have descended to mere mortality.

Instead, she stood before them like a rare vintage that had only improved with age. The girl they remembered had blossomed into a woman of breathtaking elegance, her beauty refined rather than diminished by the passing years.

The men found themselves transfixed. The object of their youthful fantasies stood before them, more dazzling than ever, yet her heart belonged to someone they considered wholly unworthy.

A collective wave of regret, bitterness, and what-could-have-been washed over them.

Meanwhile, the women huddled together, their whispers sharp with envy. "Those pearls around her neck must be worth a fortune," one murmured.

"And that dress - isn't that from the new Valentino collection?" another hissed.

Before Vivian's arrival, Giselle had been busy weaving her poisonous narratives.

Now someone voiced the question they'd all been thinking: "I thought her husband was just some junior executive? That jewelry alone would cost more than a Blackwood Group VP makes in a year. Are they living beyond their means? Or is this all just for show?"

Another classmate smirked. "These days, you can get decent knockoffs for pocket change. That 'pearl' necklace? Probably plastic from some back-alley vendor."

The whispers continued, growing increasingly vicious as the champagne flowed.