To him, the Thomases were nothing if not cold and ruthlessly self–serving.
“I’ll admit I’m not much better than Jonathan,” Michael said, “but as the saying goes, ‘ignorance is no crime‘… I honestly didn’t know what was going on. By the time I found out, you’d already become a master at BYC.”
Niamh could hear the sincerity in Michael’s apology.
At the same time, she couldn’t help but notice that, between the lines, Michael was still trying to make himself look better than Jonathan.
“It’s fine,” she replied gently. “Whether you knew or not, I don’t blame you.”
Her words, so full of understanding, made the smile slip from Michael’s face.
“Niamh, you really don’t expect anything from me, do you?”
“Excuse me?” Niamh blinked, not quite grasping his meaning.
Michael gave a wry smile, pushing his gold–rimmed glasses further up his nose. His gaze drifted to Peter, who sat on Niamh’s other side.
“Mr. Peter, you know what I mean, don’t you?”
Peter glanced at Michael but said nothing.
His silence was answer enough.
In Peter’s eyes, Niamh always kept a polite distance–not just from him, but from Michael, Julian Neville, and Preston Winslow as well. Her lack of blame for them only meant she’d never expected anything from them to begin with.
If anyone had ever truly been allowed into Niamh’s world, it had only ever been Jonathan.
And as for the space in her heart that might one day open up, Peter knew it would likely never belong to him.
He let out a quiet sigh, unable to help himself.
Michael noticed Niamh’s puzzled expression and laughed, lifting his champagne.
“Well, whatever the case, let’s celebrate. Jonathan just spent half a billion dollars on your auction piece–now that’s something.”
“It is,” Niamh agreed, clinking her glass against his,
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“Raising more for charity can only be a good thing.”
While Niamh and Michael toasted, Jonathan was gently swirling the wine in his glass.
The dark, rich red looked almost pale compared to the depth of his eyes.
In the end, the golden phoenix–tail comb Niamh had designed and donated was sold in the second round of bidding–to Prince William, no less.
“And our top–selling item tonight–the golden phoenix comb, donated by the renowned BYC master, Ms. Niamh! Let’s welcome her to the stage!”
Niamh was stunned to hear she’d be receiving an honorary certificate as well. She stood, a little overwhelmed, and was about to step forward when Michael gestured for her to wait.
He bent down, dropping to one knee and carefully straightened the hem of her white gown.
The spotlight was already on her. Michael’s gallant gesture was impossible for the guests to miss.
Niamh, flustered and embarrassed, whispered, “Um… I can manage my dress myself. You really don’t have to—”
Michael looked up at her with a small, teasing smile. “Don’t I look like a knight at your feet?”
A cold shiver ran down Niamh’s spine.
She couldn’t help recalling when she’d first met Michael–he’d either been threatening her or kicking her cane across the room. When had he turned into this? She wondered given Michael’s recent surgery and hospital stay in London, if maybe his body and mind still hadn’t fully recovered.
All around them, guests–especially those at nearby tables–were buzzing with curiosity about her and Michael.
At the next table, Jonathan was hunched over his phone, entirely absorbed.
Finally, Niamh stepped onto the stage. The pure white of her ethereal gown shimmered beneath the lights, radiant as ever.
Just as Prince William rose to present the award, the foundation’s chairman hurried up to the stage and whispered something urgently in the host’s ear.
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Chapter 441
