Playing Perfect

08. Détesté

Her parents had locked her in her room after discovering she'd failed her last chemistry exam. She was cursed to spend the weekend studying polarisation and equilibrium. She wouldn't stop texting Alice about how much she wished she were there, and the gorgeous dress she'd prepared for tonight.

Alice almost felt as bad for Emily as she did for herself.

"Alice, dear!"

She turned, her smile coming instinctively, to find the Cauleys.

Again, Finley had attended, his hands dug deep into his pockets. His blond hair was swept back, accentuating his sharp cheekbones and chiselled jawline. His eyes were grey as he watched her kiss his parents' cheeks.

"Mr and Mrs Cauley, how delightful to see you tonight!"

"And you, dear." Mrs Cauley smiled. "You look beautiful! Doesn't she, Finley?"

He stayed quiet, and Mrs Cauley faced her again to gush about her dress.

Soon, they'd moved on to greet her parents, and Alice was left facing Finn. She had déjà vu, watching as he took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

"Finley," she greeted pleasantly. "I'm pleased you could make it."

He snorted at the fake kindness, sending her a devilish smirk and wink. "I'm sure you are."

She blinked, coolly maintaining her close-lipped smile. "Are you making it a habit to attend these events now?"

"I'm still deciding," he replied, taking his time to smile at her. "Is it a problem?"

"No, no," Alice said, quickly, although it did feel strange seeing Cauley at social gatherings after all these years. "It's no problem at all."

He squeezed her hand, and she felt her heart race as she realised that he was still holding it. His eyes narrowed on her. "Good."

And with that, he released her hand and began moving through the room.

He moved so elegantly across the parlour, shaking hands with men in suits along the way. It was strange, seeing that fake smile tug at his lips so naturally, as if he hadn't disappeared from high society for the past four years.

Soon, his silvery blond head was stationed in the corner of the room, chatting politely and laughing at all the right times. A tray passed him, and he began sipping on a glass of whiskey.

He fit in perfectly.

"Miss Travers."

Alice blinked, turning to see a short, hunched woman with white hair and wrinkles around her eyes. She smiled at her.

"Mrs Archibald," she said, pressing a delicate kiss to the woman's cheek. "It's so lovely to see you tonight!"

And the routine resumed—standing by the door, pressing kisses to strangers' cheeks and discussing topics ranging from the weather to the current climate of the stock market.

Trays of hors d'oeuvres passed her along with glasses of wine and champagne—only the best from her parents' vineyard in Bordeaux. Alice didn't touch any of it. A good host let her guests eat first.

An hour passed, simply greeting incoming guests before the front gates were shut and she began her rounds. She plucked a flute of champagne from a tray and sipped on it lightly, making polite conversation across the room.

She was in the middle of a frilly discussion on Chanel's winter line with a group of middle-aged gold-diggers when her phone buzzed in her pocket.

"Excusez-moi," Alice muttered.