Page 47 of A Match Made in Error

Aoife tilts her head. “You know her?”

“Unfortunately.”

“That tone says everything.”

I finally glance over.

Angora is exactly as she always is. Perfectly styled, perfectly poised, and somehow still managing to look mean. There is a faint stain on the hem of her dress, poorly concealed by a strategically placed napkin.

Her eyes flick, catching mine. Shit.

Recognition sparks. Then something colder.

“Well,” Angora says, nestling back in her chair, voice lifting just enough. “If it isn’t my ex’s match.” How is she surprised I’m here? We were all ordered to attend tonight. Aoife gasps quietly.

I set my fork down carefully. “You say that as if you forgot I was here.” The last few times we interacted, she was kind of nice…maybe the alcohol is bringing out her true nature. Or maybe being around Erik is what mellows her out. If that’s true, maybe the lord is a saint.

A few girls nearby go quiet, the subtle shift of attention like a ripple.

Angora’s lips curve. She loves attention. “Silly me. Sorry, Poppy.” She lets my name sit, as if tasting it. “Still attached to my- I mean, your- match?”

There it was. The possession she clings to. Wanting everyone to want her even though she’s happy with her match. Maybe the love of adoration is what she and Riven had in common.

I feel Aoife’s gaze flick between us, curious but cautious.

“Yes,” I say simply.

Angora laughs. “Fate. That time of my life was a joke.” It wasn’t even two weeks ago.

Something in my chest tightens, not because I believe it, but because of how easily Angora says it. Like Riven was nothing. Like he was⁠—

“A joke?” I echo, my voice quieter now, but somehow sharper.

Angora shrugs, reaching for her drink. “Come on. Everyone knows he’s just…playing at it. Flash, money, no substance. Men like that don’t⁠—”

“Money doesn’t make a man,” I cut in.

The words land before I can soften them. For a second, Angora blinks, surprised. I hold her gaze, steady now. “And if that’s all you saw, that says more about you than it does about him.”

There is a beat. Aoife’s brows lift slightly, impressed. Angora’s expression hardens, something brittle creeping in at the edges. “You’re defending him awfully hard for someone who—what?—ignored him for years and then was matched to him like five minutes ago?”

My stomach twists, but I don’t think my face shows it.

“He’s not what you think,” I say, more evenly now. Despite his flaws, he’s good to his core and doesn’t deserve one ounce of her put-on judgement.

Angora scoffs. “Please. I know exactly what he is.”

“Do you?”

The question slips out before I can stop it.

A flicker of something, annoyance, maybe, crosses Angora’s face.

Before she can respond, another voice cuts in from a nearby table.

“Oh, this is rich coming from you.” Heads turn. Two women are now moving toward each other, tension snapping between them. At first, I thought they were speaking to Angora, but it seems there’s more than one fight happening at the table right now.

“At least my match actually has influence,” one shoots back. “Not just a title he bought.”