Chapter 130

Sophia Lowell's fingertips lightly traced the jade hairpin in her updo as she flashed a radiant smile at the camera.

"Ethan personally styled my hair and said this pin suits me best." Her eyes glimmered with deliberate emphasis on the word "personally." "Since it doesn't look right on you, Isabella, perhaps it was never yours to begin with."

Isabella Valentine's smile froze instantly.

"You!" Her crimson-nailed fingers clenched the fabric of her gown. "How shameless, flaunting a man's attention!"

"Weren't you the one who started this?" Sophia's laugh was icy as she turned, her skirt swirling sharply. "Instead of wasting energy competing with me, focus on keeping your man in line. His constant pestering is exhausting."

The moment she stepped out of the ballroom, Sophia's poised posture collapsed.

She yanked out the hairpin. Moonlight glinted coldly off the milky jade.

"Trash collecting indeed," she muttered bitterly.

"Sophia!" Sebastian Valdemar hurried toward her, concern darkening his gaze as he took in her pallor. "Do you need medical attention?"

She shook her head, a damp strand of hair clinging to her temple.

Sebastian reached out instinctively. Just as his fingers brushed the stray lock, a camera flash exploded in the distance.

Around the restroom corner, Isabella examined the captured image with satisfaction. The photo showed Sebastian tenderly tucking Sophia's hair behind her ear—an undeniably intimate moment.

"Tiffany," she whispered into her phone, "Professor Valdemar is clearly smitten with Sophia."

Tiffany Roscente's reply appeared instantly: "Tonight, we'll expose her true colors to everyone."

Isabella pocketed her phone, her red lips curling into a venomous smile.

The terrace breeze carried a chill.

Sophia shivered involuntarily. Moments earlier, she'd felt serpentine eyes boring into her back.

"Cold?" Sebastian offered his jacket.

She declined with a shake of her head, gesturing toward the far balcony. "I need some space."

Moonlight pooled around her like liquid silver, failing to penetrate the shadows in her eyes. The hairpin—still warm from her grip—rested heavily in her palm, cold as glacial ice.