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The house was humming with soft jazz and clinking glasses as the night settled in. From the verandas to the drawing rooms, small clusters of guests lingered in conversation, all glowing under the golden wash of chandelier light and vineyard charm.
But Monet had stopped listening three compliments ago.
She watched Adelaide from across the grand foyer—Adelaide, in a white silk halter dress, hair pinned in soft waves, smiling at yet another family acquaintance who insisted on recounting how they remembered her in baby curls. It had been charming two hours ago.
Now it was maddening.
Monet didn't wait. She crossed the room, placed a steady hand on Adelaide's lower back, and leaned in.
"Come with me."
Adelaide turned with a smirk. "Is this a kidnapping?"
Monet smiled sweetly, but her eyes were dark with intent. "Something like that."
She led her down the corridor away from the main crowd—past the library, past the tasting room—until they slipped into the downstairs powder room, a sleek marble-and-onyx half-bath tucked discreetly between wings.
The door clicked shut.
Adelaide raised an eyebrow. "Monet—"
But she didn't finish.
Because Monet had already turned the lock, already pressed Adelaide gently back against the wall with one hand at her hip, the other tracing the curve of her thigh through that dangerously high slit.
"I've been watching you all night," Monet whispered, lips grazing the shell of her ear. "Smiling for everyone. Letting them touch your arm like you're something they can reach."
Adelaide's breath caught. "They were just—"
Monet cut her off with a kiss—possessive, quiet, slow. One hand slid up, fingers grazing the underside of her jaw.
"Tell me to stop," Monet said.
Adelaide didn't.
She curled her fingers into Monet's collar and whispered, "Yours. I'm yours."
That was all Monet needed, as she kneeled down on her knees.
And in the low flicker of the dimmed gold sconce, the only sound left was the soft hitch of breath, the rustle of silk, and Adelaide's whisper echoing against marble—
"Monet... baby"
----
The jazz was still playing.
A slower number now, something smoky and full of memory, floating through the air like perfume. A few older couples danced near the veranda doors. Conversation had shifted into its mellow phase—less politics, more laughter, less name-dropping, more whispered gossip. The kind of night that glowed with the weight of legacy and careful observation.
