Betrayal at the Washington Gala

I felt Jonathan Powell's eyes on me before I saw him.

Across the crowded ballroom of the French Embassy reception, his gaze held a weight that made me pause mid-conversation. Unlike the pitying glances I'd grown accustomed to since the Hamptons disaster, Jonathan's expression held something else entirely—calculation, perhaps. Or concern.

"Rosalie," he nodded slightly when our paths finally crossed near the champagne fountain. "I trust you're holding up under the circumstances."

"Powell," I replied, straightening my spine instinctively. "I'm managing just fine."

His eyes flickered briefly to where Emely stood surrounded by her new admirers, my sapphire necklace still gleaming at her throat. "Are you?"

Something in his tone made me study him more carefully. Jonathan Powell didn't waste words or energy. As heir to one of America's most influential political dynasties, he chose his battles with surgical precision.

"I noticed you watching her," I said quietly.

"I'm watching several things," he replied, his voice low enough that only I could hear. "The Castillo family's business dealings don't align with their public image of patriotic defense contractors."

I raised an eyebrow. "You're investigating them?"

"I'm collecting information," he corrected. "There's a difference."

Before I could press further, the ambassador called for everyone's attention, and Jonathan melted back into the crowd, leaving me with the unsettling feeling that he was playing a much deeper game than anyone realized.

---

Three weeks later, the Georgetown garden party at Justice Harlow's estate was in full bloom. Roses perfumed the air, their thorns carefully hidden beneath perfect petals—much like the political smiles that surrounded me.

I'd managed to avoid Emely for most of the afternoon, staying close to my mother and the Supreme Court wives who still regarded me with respect. But as I wandered toward the rose gardens for a moment of peace, I sensed rather than heard someone following me.

"Running away, Rosalie?" Emely's voice sliced through the peaceful afternoon. "That seems to be becoming your specialty."

I turned slowly, keeping my expression neutral despite the anger bubbling beneath my skin. "I'm simply enjoying the flowers, Emely. Something you might try sometime instead of spreading poison."

She stepped closer, her smile sharp as a blade. "Still bitter about Edward? It's pathetic, really. You couldn't keep a man who was clearly meant for someone better."

"Better?" I laughed softly. "Is that what you call stealing someone else's fiancé and necklace?"

"Taking what I deserve," she corrected, her eyes flashing dangerously. "Something you never understood how to do."

I moved to step around her, but she blocked my path, backing me toward the rose bushes.

"You need to understand your place in the new order, Rosalie," she hissed, shoving me hard with both hands.

I stumbled backward, losing my balance as thorns tore at my arms and dress. Pain shot through me as I fell awkwardly among the roses, their perfume suddenly cloying and suffocating.

"Look at you," Emely laughed as I struggled to my feet, blood trickling down my forearms from where the thorns had caught skin. "Even the flowers know you don't belong here anymore."

Something snapped inside me. The careful composure I'd maintained since the Hamptons cracked like thin ice.

"You're nothing but a bully with a new toy," I said, my voice steady despite the rage coursing through me. "And toys break, Emely."

She stepped forward, her hand flashing out to strike me across the face with surprising force. "You need to know your place in the new order!"

The slap echoed in the quiet garden, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps as guests heard the commotion.

But I didn't wait for rescuers. Years of diplomatic training fell away as instinct took over. I struck back—my palm connecting with her cheek with enough force to snap her head to the side.

"Rosalie!" A shocked voice called from behind us.

Emely's eyes widened in disbelief, her hand flying to her reddening cheek. "You'll regret that," she whispered, her voice trembling with fury and something else—fear, perhaps.

As we stood there, blood and perfume mingling in the afternoon air, I realized this wasn't just about a broken engagement anymore. This was war—and for the first time, I was fighting back.