Chapter 8
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Daphne waited for the stiffening of his posture. She waited for his fingers to go limp, for the cold politeness of an aristocratic gentleman realizing he had been duped by an impostor. She waited for him to pull back his tailored sleeves, check his watch, and offer some empty, pitying farewell before leaving her on the terrace.
Instead, Nathan stayed right where he was, his warmth steady through her skin.
“May I step closer, Daphne?” he asked quietly.
Daphne looked up, meeting his slate-gray eyes, and gave a faint, wet nod.
Nathan took one measured stride forward, closing the distance between them without crowding her. He raised his hand slowly, pausing an inch from her face, his gaze searching hers for permission. When she didn't flinch, the pad of his thumb gently brushed against her cheek, catching a falling teardrop with feather-light reverence.
Daphne’s breath hitched. She leaned the barest fraction into his touch.
There was no disappointment in his eyes. There was no mockery. There was only a storm of emotion so profound, so devastatingly fierce, that it knocked the air from her lungs.
“Do you really think so little of me, Daphne?” he murmured, his voice dropping into a register that made her heart shudder. “Do you think I spent three hundred and sixty-four nights falling in love with a jpeg?”
Daphne blinked, stunned, her lips parting in utter disbelief. “What... what did you say?”
“I said,” Nathan whispered, his thumb resting gently against the curve of her cheek, “that I didn't spend twelve months staying awake until dawn because of a Parisian girl’s cheekbones.”
He looked into her eyes, searching every plane of her face with an intensity that burned away the cold.
“I stayed awake because of the woman who wept for forty minutes in a supply closet because an eight-year-old boy survived a car crash,” Nathan said, his voice thick with unvarnished passion. “I stayed awake because of the woman who stayed past her shift to comb an elderly widow’s hair so she wouldn't feel abandoned before the morgue van arrived. I stayed awake because of your mind, Daphne. Your courage. The fierce, stubborn, beautiful light in you that refuses to let this rotten world go dark.”
“Nathan...” she breathed, her hands resting against the lapels of his tuxedo as if she were finding her footing after a tempest.
“You think you tricked me?” Nathan asked, a faint, wry smile touching the corners of his lips. “Daphne, I knew that picture was fake on day—”
*CRASH.*
The heavy frosted glass doors of the terrace didn't swing open; they were violently slammed back against the stone walls with enough force to send a shudder through the metal hinges.
The delicate, sacred bubble of the terrace shattered into a thousand jagged pieces.
“There she is!”
A harsh, triumphant screech ripped through the winter air, sharp and ugly, accompanied by the rapid click of high heels and heavy polished oxfords on the marble threshold.
Daphne gasped, startled by the intrusion. Nathan moved with quiet precision, stepping between her and the sudden draft, placing an arm gently around her waist to steady and shield her behind his broad shoulder, completely blocking her from the wind and the intruders' view.
A crowd of at least twenty people poured onto the terrace like a pack of wolves smelling fresh meat.
Leading the charge was Trevor, his face flushed with manic, vindictive glee, his bow tie slightly askew from his haste. Beside him walked Simon Kingsley, wearing a predatory, thin-lipped smirk, his hands thrust into his tuxedo pockets with theatrical casualness. Flanking them were three senior directors from the Kingsley Capital governance board, two prominent philanthropic trustees draped in diamonds and sable, and four burly private security guards in black tactical suits, their earpieces glowing with active frequencies.
“Ladies and gentlemen, board members, look for yourselves!” Trevor shouted, his voice echoing off the glass canopy like a siren.
He didn't look at the man holding Daphne. The man was still standing half-turned in the terrace shadow, his back largely to the ballroom doors, his broad shoulders completely obscuring Daphne from the waist up. To Trevor, blinded by his own frantic ambition and the thrill of the hunt, the man was merely an unidentifiable silhouette—perhaps an embarrassed executive or a junior donor who had been lured into an illicit rendezvous.
Trevor strode toward the center of the terrace, stopping beside a long, linen-draped champagne table set up for the VIP reception.
With a dramatic flourish, Trevor slammed a manila folder onto the pristine white tablecloth.
“For months, Kingsley Capital has prided itself on absolute integrity, vetting every philanthropic dollar, protecting the family foundation from external corruption!” Trevor boomed, pointing a trembling, accusatory finger directly at Daphne. “And yet, tonight, an opportunistic parasite has breached our private sanctuary! A gold-digging, predatory fraud has snuck into the executive wing using counterfeit credentials!”
Daphne shrank back against Nathan’s chest, her whole body trembling as she recognized the board members staring at her from the threshold.
Among them was Mrs. Alistair, the head of the hospital oversight committee, and Director Sterling from the pharmaceutical trust. Their eyes, cold and patrician, were fixed upon her with horrified, judgmental scrutiny.
“Trevor, stop this,” Daphne whispered, her voice choked with tears, but her plea was swallowed whole by Trevor’s theatrical roar.
“Look at her!” Trevor sneered, turning to the gasping society matrons behind him. “Her name is Daphne Conroy! She is not an heiress! She is not an investor! She is an emergency room scrubwoman from Memorial Trauma who makes thirty dollars an hour cleaning bedpans and mopping up bodily fluids!”
Trevor reached into the folder and violently whipped out two glossy, high-resolution photographs, holding them up in the glare of the terrace spotlights.
The first photograph was a blown-up screenshot of the French influencer’s Riviera travel blog: sun-drenched, radiant, dripping in European luxury.
The second photograph was Daphne’s actual hospital credential—the raw, unedited, exhausted face taken under the cold lights of the trauma ward.
“Look at this side-by-side!” Trevor yelled, his face contorting into an ugly, triumphant mask of hatred. “For an entire year, this pathetic nobody has been running an elaborate, deceptive catfishing scheme! She stole the identity of a French fashion model to seduce an executive from this corporation! She lied about her background, lied about her wealth, lied about her very face—all to claw her way out of the gutter and sink her fangs into a family trust!”
A collective, scandalized gasp rippled through the gathered elite.
“Disgraceful,” a director muttered, shaking his head. “An impostor... at the Kingsley Grand Atrium?” a woman whispered, shielding her diamonds as if Daphne’s mere presence were infectious. “Security, why wasn't this woman screened at the perimeter?” another board member demanded, his face darkening with aristocratic indignation.
Simon Kingsley stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction as he looked toward the dark silhouette standing beside Daphne.
“Whoever you are, sir,” Simon drawled loudly, addressing the broad-shouldered man whose face remained turned away, “I suggest you step away from that criminal immediately. My cousin Nathan entrusted me with the security of this foundation tonight. We will not allow our donors or our executives to be blackmailed by a common street rat.”
