**Chapter 42**
**Cossette's POV**
The meeting room was small today — just the three of us. Me, Betha, and Alex, gathered around the corner table in my office with coffee, croissants, and the remnants of what had been a very productive morning.
The sales numbers were still making me smile every time I looked at them.
"So," I said, setting my cup down, "the gala is this Saturday."
Alex looked up from his croissant. "The yearly elite gala?"
"Yes."
He pointed at himself. "Am I invited?"
"You are now."
He sat up straighter, suddenly very awake. "Seriously?"
"You're part of this team," I said. "The advertisement was your face as much as Nathalie's. You deserve to be there."
Alex leaned back with the quiet satisfaction of a man who had just been told something very good. Then he straightened his collar instinctively, as if mentally already dressing for the occasion.
Betha, who had been stirring her coffee in silence, looked at him sideways. "The theme is royalty. Just so you know."
Alex blinked. "Royalty."
"Royalty," she confirmed. "So whatever you were planning to wear — reconsider it."
"I own a suit."
"A royal suit?"
"A very nice suit."
Betha turned to me with an expression that said *this man will show up in something terrible.* I pressed my lips together to avoid laughing.
"Just wear something dark and formal," I told him. "You'll be fine."
He nodded, satisfied. Betha looked unconvinced.
We wrapped up the meeting details — arrival time, Ray would meet us there, the logistics of walking into a room full of people who had been attending this gala since birth. I kept my voice even and businesslike throughout, which was harder than it should have been considering that somewhere in the back of my mind, a small and deeply inconvenient thought kept surfacing.
*Alaric would be there.*
*Nathalie would be there.*
*Nathalie, who according to Betha, still looked at Alaric like a lost puppy.*
I picked up my coffee and drank it faster than necessary.
---
Two hours later, Betha and I were standing inside Lumière — one of the most famous luxury boutiques in the city. High ceilings, ivory walls, gold clothing racks lined with gowns that probably cost more than most people's rent. The kind of place that made you walk slower just by existing.
Betha had been ready for this moment since approximately birth.
"Okay," she said, already moving toward the first rack with the focused energy of a general surveying a battlefield. "Royalty theme. We need to look like we were born in a palace."
"We need to look appropriate," I corrected.
She turned and gave me a look. "Cossette. It is a royalty themed elite gala. Appropriate IS a palace. Keep up."
She pulled out a gown immediately — deep burgundy, off shoulder, with a long dramatic train.
"This," she announced.
"That's for you or for me?"
"For me, obviously. Your coloring is completely different." She shoved it into my arms anyway. "Try it first. I want to see."
I tried it. It was beautiful and completely wrong for me — the burgundy fought with my ginger hair in a way that was more argument than complement.
Betha studied me. "Yeah, no. You need something that works with your hair. Something that makes the ginger look intentional and powerful rather than accidental."
"My hair is always intentional."
"I know that and you know that. The gala needs to know that."
I put the burgundy back.
The next thirty minutes were a spectacular exercise in Betha's very specific vision. She rejected a pale pink immediately — *too soft, you're going to war not a garden party.* She rejected a silver — *beautiful but cold, and Frost will be there, we don't need two ice statues.* She rejected a white — *you're married, not getting married, different energy entirely.*
I tried on a deep forest green that made her pause.
"Oh," she said quietly.
I looked in the mirror.
The gown was structured at the top, fitted through the waist, and fell in heavy elegant layers to the floor. The color did something interesting with my ginger hair — made it look less like a coincidence and more like a choice. Like I had been designed this way on purpose.
"This one," Betha said firmly.
"You said oh."
"I say oh when something is right. That's my oh."
I turned slightly in the mirror. The dress had a small train — nothing dramatic, just enough. A queen in a meeting, not a bride at an altar.
"Okay," I admitted. "This one."
Betha pointed at me. "I told you. Forest green. You're basically royalty already."
She disappeared back into the racks with renewed energy and emerged seven minutes later holding a gown in deep midnight blue — fitted, sleek, with subtle embroidery along the neckline that caught the light when she moved.
She held it against herself in front of the mirror.
We both looked.
"Betha," I said.
"I know," she said.
"That's—"
"I know, Cossette."
She smiled at her own reflection with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had always known exactly who they were, and had simply found the dress to prove it.
We were standing at the counter, gowns carefully wrapped, when my phone rang.
I glanced at the screen.
Emily Irkinz.
I answered. "Hey, Emily."
"Cossette!" Her voice was warm, slightly rushed, like she had been waiting to make this call. "Did you receive the invitation? To the gala?"
I smiled. "I did. This morning actually."
"Good." She exhaled. "I told Nathalie to send it. I hope that's okay — I thought it would be good for you to be there. For your company, for visibility. It's the right room to be in."
Something genuinely warm moved through my chest. Emily had done that quietly, without announcing it, without asking for anything in return.
"Thank you, Emily," I said, meaning it fully. "Really. That was thoughtful."
"Of course." A small pause. "Will you come?"
"We'll be there."
"Good. I'll see you Saturday then."
We hung up.
Betha, who had been standing close enough to hear every word, was already wearing her expression — the one that meant she was choosing her words carefully, which for Betha was a rare and slightly alarming event.
"Emily told Nathalie to invite us," I said.
"I heard."
"That was kind of her."
Betha picked up her shopping bag. "Mm."
I looked at her. "Betha."
"I heard what she did," she said evenly. "I'm not saying she didn't do something nice."
"But?"
She started walking toward the exit, bag over her shoulder, back straight, voice perfectly composed.
"But I remember every single thing she did to you between the ages of thirteen and seventeen. And one phone call to Nathalie Sterling doesn't erase four years of making my best friend cry." She pushed the door open and held it for me. "So. I'm glad she's trying. I'll be civil. But I'm not her friend, Cossette."
I stepped through the door beside her.
"That's fair," I said quietly.
Betha nodded once, sunglasses on, gown over her arm, looking like exactly the kind of woman who absolutely belonged at a yearly elite gala.
"Now," she said, "we need shoes. And I refuse to compromise on the heels."
I laughed and followed her down the street.
Saturday was coming.
And we were going to walk into that gala like we had always belonged there.
Because this time — we did.