Chapter 63: The Winthorp Legacy Dinner (8)

The academic smiled, pleased.

“Excellent. Then perhaps you can explain which portion of the methodology was independently developed—and which relied on shared data?”

Ashley’s pulse thundered.

Catherine squeezed her arm… gently. Encouragingly.

“Take your time,” Catherine said sweetly. “We’re all here to learn. Do you know? Dr. Renfield is preparing a new paper on this topic. She’s incredibly well-versed.”

The circle around them tightened. Not hostile. Merely attentive.

“Dr. Ashley,” the academic continued, “your paper proposes stabilizing synaptic signaling by targeting the early-stage amyloid cascade. Let’s talk mechanism.”

Ashley nodded smoothly. “Of course.”

He adjusted his glasses. “You reference modulation of BACE1 activity in the preclinical phase. Can you explain which downstream interaction you’re isolating—and why?”

Ashley didn’t hesitate.

“BACE1 suppression reduces amyloid-beta accumulation, which improves synaptic response overall.”

A few brows lifted.

The man leaned back slightly. “That’s the textbook answer,” he said mildly. “I asked about the downstream interaction.”

Ashley’s smile tightened. “The… neuronal response pathways.”

Silence fell like a held breath.

Catherine shifted her weight—barely. The silk of her gown whispered.

Another researcher stepped forward, a woman with sharp eyes and sharper patience.

“You claim selective inhibition without impairing myelination. Which co-enzyme allows that selectivity?”

Ashley blinked.

“Well,” she said carefully, “it’s a combination of factors. Primarily dosage control.”

Catherine closed her eyes for half a second.

“That wasn’t my question,” the woman replied.

Ashley’s fingers curled around her glass. “The exact enzyme interaction is still under refinement.”

No one smiled this time.

They continued—politely, relentlessly. Each question precise. Each answer thinner than the last. And Catherine never spoke. She didn’t need to.

Because it became clear to everyone present:

Ashley Renfield knew the surface.

But the one who had lived inside the work, the one who understood its bones and blood, was standing right there, saying nothing.

No one said it aloud.

Not here. Not with the Renfield name still carrying weight where it truly mattered for them–academic funding.

Maximilian smiled. He saw that Sebastian was mitigating something and walked to him across the room.

“You must be overwhelmed, Miss Renfield,” someone finally offered, gentle as a bandage.

“Yes,” another added quickly. “What are we doing interrogating the younger scholars at a gala?”

One by one, they dispersed.

The moment dissolved.

Catherine lifted her chin and drew in a deep, steady breath.

It didn’t look like a victory.

But it was.

She showed them that Ashley Renfield was an empty vessel making noise. They’d know Ashley didn’t deserve her name on that paper and there was no guidance she would have given Catherine. They would remember Catherine’s face. Every single one of them.

And she would remember theirs.

She needed power—real power. Something that stood taller than legacy and louder than whispers. Something that made people bow without being asked.

She truly did.

The gala resumed its hum as if nothing had happened. Laughter. Crystal clinking. Careers quietly rearranging themselves.

Beside Catherine, Eileen Morcant watched her in silence.

She saw it—the fracture beneath Catherine’s poise. The way her shoulders remained straight while something inside her bowed and cracked. On the phone, Catherine had sounded angry. Defensive. Like a woman bracing for impact.

Now, Eileen understood. This was not arrogance. This was survival.

She wasn’t so different from her, after all.

Even if Maximilian said nothing, asked for nothing, Eileen had already decided.

She reached into her clutch and slipped Catherine a card, fingers brushing lightly against her wrist. “My personal number,” she said. “I’ll expect your visit. And trust me when I say—I know exactly how to handle a Renfield.”

Catherine’s breath caught. Then she smiled, and this time it reached her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

This—this—was what she gained tonight. Not applause. Not vindication. Allies. She would remember this moment when she stood at the pinnacle of success. She already had a plan for Ashley Renfield.

It required patience.

For now…

She turned, scanning the room for Bernice.

Instead, her eyes found Ashley.

Ashley stood across the hall, posture rigid, gaze sharp with fury. The second their eyes met, Ashley lifted her phone and made a call: slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact.

Something about it felt wrong.

Catherine’s pulse quickened. She needed to find Bernice. Or Sebastian. Or… Maximilian.

He had to be close. He always was. Thirty meters, maybe less. Close enough that the absence of him suddenly felt loud.

She took a step…

And Ashley appeared at her side like a shadow.

“Did you really think you could bring me down?” Ashley sneered. “You can dream.”

Catherine’s jaw clenched. “You know what?” she snapped, voice sharp and brittle. “You can have my research. All of it. I quit. Just leave me alone.”

It wasn’t surrender.

It was bait.

Ashley narrowed her eyes. “Tell me what you’re planning,” she said coldly. “And maybe I’ll spare your little four-eyes.”

Catherine leaned in, eyes flashing: dangerous, regal, unyielding. For a heartbeat, the warrior queen beneath the silk showed herself. “Touch her and—”

Ashley froze.

For a moment, she looked genuinely startled. The jewels. The gown. None of it matched the woman standing before her now.

Then Ashley smirked. “So you do care,” she murmured. “Now I know exactly what to do.”

She slipped into the crowd and vanished.

Catherine’s heart slammed against her ribs.

No. Not again.

Once more… in this life too… Bernice was being targeted because of her loyalty.

And where was Maximilian when she needed him?

She turned abruptly, panic sharpening her movements.

And collided hard with something solid.

Someone.

The impact knocked the breath from her lungs. Her ankle twisted painfully, heel skidding. Balance vanished. Her mind went blank.

Instinct took over.

Her fingers fisted into the first thing she could reach… a velvet lapel.

She didn’t fall.

A strong arm locked around her waist, steady and unyielding, lifting her upright as if she weighed nothing. Heat. Strength. The unmistakable solidity of a man who did not yield.

Catherine gasped, breath shuddering back into her lungs.

Her hand still clutched his lapel.

Slowly…achingly…she looked up.

Black eyes.

Dark hair.

A straight nose. Thick brows.

Her heart skipped.

And time collapsed.

Canvas snapping in the wind. A tent heavy with the scent of iron and ink. Maps strewn across a desk. Missives half-burned. A sword resting atop them all.

A king with a hardened face.

Her king.

Her husband.

Dorian.

Her heart thundered, too loud, too fast, as if it might tear free of her chest.

And the man holding her looked down.

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