Chapter 57: The Winthorp Legacy Dinner (2)

There weren’t many members of the media present.

But it didn’t matter.

The moment the car stopped—and Catherine stepped into view—people reacted before they could even think.

Flashes went off.

And in those fractured bursts of light, Catherine looked like something unreal. Not merely beautiful. Not merely elegant.

She looked like a goddess wearing the patience of a queen.

Her deep forest-green double silk satin gown flowed as she moved, the fabric catching light with a muted, liquid sheen. It cinched her waist perfectly, sculpting her figure into a silhouette that defied easy classification—neither a severe column nor an extravagant ballroom sweep, but something exquisitely balanced between restraint and grandeur. Powerful. Intentional.

An emerald-and-diamond choker rested against her throat, the portrait neckline framing her collarbones with tasteful precision, drawing the eye without ever begging for it. Opera gloves, matching the dress exactly, completed the white-tie formality.

And that bracelet…

It pulsed faintly at her wrist, almost alive.

She was perfection.

Maximilian forgot how to breathe.

For a moment, words abandoned him entirely. He simply stared: stunned, undone… and then, instinctively, he did the one thing his heart demanded.

He held out his hand.

He wanted to walk beside her. Hand in hand. Just for tonight.

Catherine tilted her head slightly.

One elegant brow arched.

That was all.

Maximilian bowed his head, hiding the curve of his smile. He had forgotten—briefly, foolishly—that she had made it clear she was not his plus one. The reminder stung, sharp and quick, but he swallowed it.

The night was long.

He stepped slightly to the side, giving her the space to walk ahead. If he didn’t have the right to stand beside her, then he would take what he could.

He would follow.

A knight did not need permission to guard his queen.

The flashes still didn’t stop as she moved forward, and Maximilian soon realized why. If the dress was breathtaking from the front, it was architectural from behind—its low back daring without vulgarity, a carefully structured bow resting at the small of her back like a signature. A short but unmistakable train followed her steps, whispering against the ground.

Maximilian smiled despite himself.

She had dressed with new-money confidence and old-room fluency.

And it surprised him.

Catherine entered the hall. The usher welcomed her personally and led her toward the prime seating—the tier-one section reserved for legacy families and untouchable names.

That was when the room truly noticed her.

Heads turned. Conversations faltered. Gazes followed her path and refused to look away.

“Who is she?” someone whispered.

When they noticed Maximilian walking just behind her, speculation bloomed like wildfire.

“Is that his girlfriend?”

“He finally found one?”

“He brought her here… Is there an announcement coming?”

But beneath all the murmurs, one question lingered—persistent and unanswered.

Who is she?

Catherine swallowed.

She felt the weight of the stares pressing into her skin. Being watched was nothing new. In her previous life, she had been a queen—eyes had followed her everywhere, reverent and eager, hungry just to witness her existence.

But this…

These gazes were different.

Measured. Appraising. Filled with judgment, suspicion, and quiet resistance.

Her fingers trembled, just slightly.

And no one approached her.

They only stared.

Until…

Catherine heard Maximilian’s voice beside her, calm and amused, already folded into conversation.

“No, I don’t think so,” he was saying lightly. “And I bet Catherine here would agree with me.”

Catherine turned.

Maximilian stood with an elderly man—the Camdon patriarch—his expression genial, relaxed, entirely at ease. He looked as though he had always belonged here.

Catherine stepped into the conversation without hesitation, a smile already in place.

“I’m not much of a weather expert,” she said smoothly, “but if the Professor here says it won’t snow tonight, I’d be inclined to trust him over forecast models.”

Her tone was easy. Familiar. As if discussing the weather with men like this had always been a part of her life.

The Camdon patriarch chuckled. Maximilian smiled wider.

And just like that, the spell broke.

Others drifted closer—drawn by curiosity more than invitation. Older women with sharp eyes and sharper memories. Younger ones eager to place her, to categorize her. Catherine held herself effortlessly among them, speaking warmly, listening closely, saying much without ever giving too much away.

Diplomatic. Polished. Untouchable.

The longer the conversation lasted, the more intrigued they became.

Because the question still lingered.

Who is she?

Catherine decided to answer it… on her own terms.

Her gaze swept the hall, settling on the tier-two section. There, she spotted a familiar face: one of her father’s old friends, a rancher who had always hovered at the edges of elite spaces. Not Preston-wealthy, but ambitious enough to buy his way into rooms like this.

Bernard Copper.

He was speaking to none other than the Whitmore patriarch—Gabriel Whitmore, if her memory served her right.

Of course.

Those who had paid to enter always tried to anchor themselves to those born into it. Catherine understood the dance well. She glanced once more across the hall.

Maximilian was occupied; laughing easily among men his age, charming without effort, entirely himself.

Perfect.

“Uncle Bernie,” she called, approaching with a smile.

Heads turned again. Whispers followed her steps.

But the sharpest gaze belonged to Gabriel Whitmore, who watched her with quiet intensity.

Bernard blinked, momentarily confused—then recognition bloomed across his face.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he laughed. “The apple of Jimmy’s eye.”

He pulled her into a warm hug, patting her back with familiar affection. “I haven’t seen you in ages! Look at you—grown up and stunning.”

“Thank you, Uncle Bernie,” Catherine replied softly.

Gabriel Whitmore inclined his head. “And you are…?”

Before Bernard could answer, Catherine stepped forward.

“Hello. I’m Catherine Elizabeth Preston.”

The name landed cleanly. Precisely.

Gabriel’s brows lifted a fraction. “I saw you with Maximilian earlier. You’re acquainted?”

Catherine smiled… pleasant, composed, deliberate.

“Yes. I’ve met the Professor recently,” she said. “Professor Whitmore is truly a gem among academics.”

She emphasized the word academics just enough.

Professional. Neutral. Harmless.

Even if she suspected his family already knew about the cohabitation.

Gabriel nodded slowly, reassessing.

After a few more exchanges, Catherine excused herself and moved on.

Mission accomplished.

By the time she reached the other side of the hall, the whispers had changed shape.

A Preston.

New money.

An heiress.

Perhaps ambitious. Perhaps dangerous.

A dollar princess—walking calmly among legacy crowns. Oddly, fitting among them.

And Catherine let them believe exactly that.

The moment she moved away, Gabriel Whitmore leaned closer to Bernard, his voice low, curious, but not casual.

“Is she really from that Preston family?”

Bernard didn’t hesitate. “Very much so,” he said, sipping his champagne. “Her father and brothers would move mountains for her.”

Bernard Copper was not a foolish man. He understood rooms like these—understood that favors were seeded long before they were asked for.

Whitmore still had the name.

But the wealth… that had thinned with time.

Bernard leaned in just a fraction more, lowering his voice as if sharing an idle observation.

“All her brothers are settled now,” he added lightly. “Except the fourth one. A lawyer. Ambitious. Talks about entering politics.”

In rooms like this, information weighed more than gold.

Gabriel swallowed his scotch slowly, his gaze drifting across the hall until it settled on Catherine.

She stood among them with ease—her posture refined, her movements graceful, her presence unmistakably belonging. Not begging entry. Not overreaching.

Acceptable.

Then Gabriel’s eyes shifted.

To a tall figure at the far end of the room.

Handsome. Well-educated. Sharp enough to charm, disciplined enough to survive politics.

His pride.

His grandson.

Godfrey Whitmore.

Godfrey approached, adjusting his cufflinks, already sensing the weight of his grandfather’s stare.

Gabriel placed a hand on his glass, voice deliberate.

“Why don’t you ask the young lady in green for a dance?”

Godfrey followed his gaze.

Catherine.

Something unreadable flickered through his eyes before a slow, knowing smirk curved his lips. He straightened, fixing his white bow tie with practiced ease.

He understood.

And if there was one thing Godfrey Whitmore had been taught since birth…

It was how to take what his family needed.

He turned toward Catherine.

And began to walk.

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