The Substitute Heiress Leaves For Good

The next day, a girl in Preston's circle who was on relatively good terms with Eleonore — none other than Isabelle Beaumont — was throwing a birthday party.

Eleonore arrived alone, and amidst the sea of fake laughter and air kisses, she stood there looking utterly wretched and pitiful.

She found Isabelle, who was holding court beside the champagne tower.

"Happy birthday," Eleonore said, handing her a velvet-wrapped box.

Isabelle's eyes lit up. "El! You came! I was starting to worry." She eagerly tore open the gift. Nestled on a bed of silk was an antique sapphire necklace, a breathtaking piece of Edwardian craftsmanship. "Oh my God, El, it's stunning." She immediately clasped it around her neck, the deep blue stones a perfect complement to her silver gown.

A few of Preston's friends drifted over, their eyes scanning the space behind Eleonore.

"Flying solo tonight, Sanford?" one of them asked with a smirk. "Did Preston screw up again?"

Eleonore offered a faint, noncommittal smile. "He's running late." Her aloofness was unusual, and it didn't go unnoticed.

Half an hour later, a stir at the entrance announced Preston's arrival.

But he was not alone. On his arm was a woman in a white dress — Vanessa Cole.

His first love.

A hush fell over their immediate circle.

All eyes darted between Eleonore, standing alone by the bar, and this new pair.

Preston, utterly indifferent, led Vanessa toward the group. "Everyone, this is Vanessa."

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

"Is he announcing a new relationship?"

"Who knows? His wife is still standing right here."

...

Vanessa's gaze landed on Eleonore, a flicker of triumph gleaming in her soft brown eyes. She extended a delicate hand. "You must be Eleonore. Preston has told me so much about you."

She paused, letting her eyes trail over Eleonore's face. "It's rather interesting — we do look a bit alike, don't we?"

She had just publicly branded Eleonore as the understudy, intent on humiliating her.

Eleonore ignored the outstretched hand. A slow, cold smile touched her lips, one that never reached her eyes. "Miss Cole, resemblance is often nothing more than cheap imitation. I do hope you're not one of them."

Vanessa's face went pale. Tears instantly welled in her eyes as she shrank back against Preston's side. "I didn't mean it that way. I was only remarking that we look somewhat alike. Perhaps Eleonore has misunderstood me?"

Preston's expression hardened. He shot Eleonore a glare full of reproach. "Vanessa is our guest. Is this how I taught you to receive guests?"

Whispers erupted all around them. "So uncalled for." "She's clearly just jealous."

Just then, a woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue pointed at Isabelle's neck. "Izzy, that necklace! Is that the 'Star of the Seine'?" she exclaimed. "I saw the real one at a Sotheby's auction last year. This one... the blue seems a bit off."

The group's focus shifted instantly from the love triangle to the jewelry. Everyone leaned in, scrutinizing the piece around Isabelle's neck. Isabelle's own smile faltered, and she touched the sapphires nervously, her face flushing crimson.

Vanessa chose that exact moment to speak, her voice soft as a murmur yet perfectly pitched for everyone nearby to hear. "Oh, Eleonore, you shouldn't have. The thought behind a gift is what truly matters, not the price."

The implication was venomous and unmistakable. Eleonore had tried to pass off a fake.

The whispers turned from gossip to outright scorn.

"A lawyer's salary in New York is good, but not nearly good enough for the real 'Star of the Seine.'"

"Trying too hard to fit in, I suppose."

"How mortifying for Isabelle."

The words were like tiny, sharp needles, pricking at her from every direction. They had already judged and convicted her. In their world, she was an outsider, a social climber who had finally reached too far and exposed herself.

Eleonore's gaze found Preston across the crowd. Some desperate, foolish corner of her heart still hoped he would stand up for her. He had been right beside her when she bid on that necklace at a private estate auction. He knew it was real. He knew perfectly well.

Yet he simply stood there, brow furrowed, his face a mixture of impatience and disappointment. He did not defend her. He did not utter a single word to silence those people. Instead, he walked up to her, lowered his voice, and spoke in a harsh whisper meant for her ears alone.

"Eleonore, why would you do this? Apologize to Isabelle right now. Make this go away."

His words cut deeper than any insult could. He believed them. Or worse — he simply didn't care enough to learn the truth. In the courtroom of his friends' opinion, she was guilty, and he was her prosecutor.

In that moment, she felt a loneliness that consumed her very soul. In a room full of people she had once called her friends, she was utterly, completely alone.

She looked at him — looked at him standing there, arm shielding Vanessa, eyes demanding her surrender. And the last trace of warmth in her heart, the final lingering ember of love, vanished into nothing.

She did not cry. She did not rage.

She smiled.

A calm, bone-chillingly serene smile. "Whether it's real or not, Preston — you ought to know that better than anyone."