Chapter 5

When Arabella Sinclair's name was called, her legs trembled. She walked onto the stage, her mortarboard slightly askew and her dignity shattered. She greeted the professors. She received her diploma.

And then he arrived at Alistair.

He extended his hand to her.

“Congratulations, Miss Sinclair.”

The contact was warm, firm, too brief.

“Thank you, Mr. Montrose.”

“Arabella.”

His name, in that voice, was more dangerous than any promise.

She stepped off the stage with the diploma pressed against her chest.

He had graduated.

But something told him that the truly difficult part was just beginning.

Because Alistair hadn't gone to the ceremony out of obligation. He had gone because of it.

The graduation dinner seemed designed to make students forget that, the next day, they would still have debts, doubts, and emotional hangovers.

The tables were covered with white tablecloths, gleaming glasses, and floral centerpieces that smelled of an expensive garden. The Wycliffe family occupied an entire table and, as always, adopted Arabella without asking permission. Sebastian sat beside her. Seraphina sat opposite, camera ready to document any humiliation.

“Your parents would have cried,” said Mrs. Wycliffe, squeezing his hand.

Arabella smiled with a lump in her throat.

“They'll do it when they see the photos.”

“The fifty photos—added Seraphina.”

“Fifty-three —Sebastian corrected.”

Arabella laughed, and for a moment she felt light.

Then he noticed the look.

Alistair sat at the head table, surrounded by executives and benefactors. He spoke little. He listened even less. Every so often, his eyes met hers with a precision that made her pulse race.

“He's looking at you,” Seraphina whispered.

“No.”

“Bella, you could light a fireplace with that look.”

“You're exaggerating.”

“I live for that.”

Arabella tried to focus on the food. It didn't work. The mere fact that Alistair was there altered the texture of the air.

When the headmaster announced the ceremonial graduation ball, Seraphina jumped up.

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I don't know how to dance.”

“Perfect. Nobody knows. That's why alcohol exists.”

Sebastian volunteered with a smile.

“I can save you from Seraphina.”

Arabella accepted for pure survival.

Dancing with Sebastian was easy. Familiar. Safe. He didn't make her feel scrutinized or pursued by an energy she couldn't name. He told her about his grandparents, about Aberdeen, about future plans. Arabella tried to respond normally.

But at some point he saw Alistair standing by the runway.

Only.

Looking at her.

Sebastian noticed it too. His hand tightened slightly in hers.

“That man can't take his eyes off you.”

Arabella swallowed.

“I know.”

“Does it bother you?”

Good question.

She was uncomfortable not wanting to move away.

Before she could answer, the music stopped. Sebastian released her gallantly, but his expression had changed.

“Be careful, Bella.”

“With what?”

He looked towards Alistair.

“With men who seem used to getting everything they look at.”

Arabella remained still.

Alistair then approached. Each step he took lessened the noise of the party.

“Miss Sinclair.”

“Mr. Montrose.”

“May I have this piece?”

Seraphina, from the table, almost choked on the wine.

Arabella should have said no. She knew it. The sensible thing to do was to refuse, smile, and go back to her friends.

But that night was no longer within the realm of reason.

“Only one,” he said.

Alistair took her hand.

The dance floor, the music, the people: it all felt far away.

“He's trembling,” he murmured.

“It's the cold.”

“It's not cold.”

“We're in Scotland. It's always cold.”

A shadow of amusement crossed his face.

“Then I'll pretend to believe him.”

Her hand rested on her waist. Correct. Elegant. Dangerously firm.

Arabella discovered that dancing with Alistair was not easy.

It was a slow surrender.

“Why did he come?” he asked.

“They invited me.”

“Don't lie to me so soon.”

He looked at her intensely.

“I came because I wanted to see her understand that she had succeeded.”

Arabella felt something opening up inside her.

“He doesn't know me well enough to care about me.”

“That's what worries me.”

The song ended.

But Alistair didn't let go of her immediately.

“She will have dinner with me tomorrow.”

Arabella blinked.

“Was that an invitation or an order?”

“A poorly worded invitation.”

“Then the answer is no.”

For the first time, Alistair seemed genuinely surprised.

Arabella recovered her hand and took a step back.

“Good evening, Mr. Montrose.”

He walked away before he lost his courage.

But when he got to the table, he found a black card next to his glass.

It only had one address and one time.

Tomorrow. 8:00 pm

Montrose House.

And below, handwritten:

He doesn't take orders. Let's see if he takes challenges.

Arabella wanted to tear up the card. Instead, she kept it.

Arabella did not go to Montrose House.

That was the lie that was repeated throughout Saturday.

He wouldn't go. He had no reason to. Alistair Montrose wasn't his friend, his boss, or his savior. He was too rich, too self-assured, and too used to the world obeying his every whim.

At seven thirty, I was still in my pajamas.

At seven forty, I was standing in front of the wardrobe.

At seven fifty, Seraphina was looking at her from the doorway with an unbearable expression.

“I'm not going to say anything.”

“You're already saying it with your face.”

“My face is wise.”

Arabella chose a dark green dress, simple but flattering.

“I'm only going to reject him in person.”

“Of course. With a pretty dress.”

“It's a matter of dignity.”

“And with a moderate but effective neckline.”

“Seraphina.”

“I'll keep quiet. But I want details.”

Montrose House looked different at night. More imposing. More intimate. The illuminated windows silhouetted the gray stone as if the mansion were breathing. Arabella almost asked the taxi to keep going.

But it went down.

The butler was waiting for her.

“Miss Sinclair.”

Again, no one asked. Everyone seemed to know she would end up there before she did.

They led her to a private library. The place was enormous, filled with antique bookshelves, a lit fireplace, and windows overlooking a dark garden. Alistair stood by the fire, a glass in his hand, his white shirt open at the neck.

“He's arrived,” he said.

“I came to tell you that you can't quote me as if I were part of your agenda.”

“And yet he came.”

Arabella lifted her chin.

“Don't confuse curiosity with obedience.”

Alistair placed the glass on a table.

“I would never mistake her for obedient.”

The phrase disarmed her more than was advisable.

Dinner wasn't a traditional dinner. There was no long table or intimidating ten place settings. Just a small table by the window, simple food, and a bottle of wine that was probably worth more than his sofa. Alistair spoke little at first. He asked about her thesis, about Caledonia Press, about his parents. He listened with a dangerous level of attention, making everything he said seem important.

Arabella ended up talking more than she intended.

She told him about Beatrice and Edmund. About Glasgow. About Mrs. Abernathy. About her fear of failing after graduating. Not everything. Never everything. But enough to feel overexposed.

“I shouldn't tell him these things,” he finally said.

“Because?”

“Because you listen as if you were going to use them.”

Alistair held her gaze.

“Not against you.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

That choice would change everything.