The Voice of Suspicion

The murmurs in the hall grew louder as Sophie, under the guise of Isabelle Boucher, became the undeniable center of attention. Her glowing dress and enigmatic smile captivated everyone, and she was swarmed by eager admirers.

"What's your name?"

"Can I have your number?"

"Are you here with someone?"

Sophie maintained her poise, answering with an effortless charm that only added to her allure. "I'm Isabelle Boucher," she said, her voice smooth and confident. "But I don't have my phone with me tonight. Here, take this number instead."

The number she gave was entirely made up, a fact that didn't escape Margaux, who leaned closer with a smirk.

"How can you lie so effortlessly?" Margaux whispered.

Sophie chuckled, her eyes glinting with mischief. "It's a skill, my dear. I'm quite good at fooling people when I need to." She ended with a playful wink.

Across the room, Celine seethed, her jealousy bubbling over as she watched Sophie command the attention of the crowd. She turned to her best friend, Eloise Roche, her voice dripping with irritation.

"Who is she?" Celine demanded.

"She said her name is Isabelle Boucher," Eloise replied.

Suspicion crept into Celine's features. "Check the guest list. I want to know if she's even supposed to be here."

Eloise returned moments later, shaking her head. "Her name isn't on the list. She's not an invited guest."

That was all Celine needed to hear. Fueled by her envy and anger, she stormed toward Sophie. The timing was perfect—Margaux had just been whisked away by a dance partner, leaving Sophie momentarily alone.

Without a word, Celine grabbed Sophie's arm and yanked her out of the crowd, dragging her into the kitchen. Sophie stumbled slightly, her heart pounding as Celine pushed her against the counter. Lucien, who had been watching the scene unfold with growing curiosity, followed them discreetly.

Once in the kitchen, Celine grabbed a knife from the counter and pointed it at Sophie, her eyes blazing with anger.

"Who are you?" she demanded. "Tell me before I cut you, and don't lie. Why are you here?"

Sophie straightened herself, her mask barely concealing the fear flashing in her eyes. "I am Isabelle Boucher," she said firmly. "And I have no idea why you're acting this way. What have I done to deserve such treatment?"

Celine moved closer, the knife trembling in her hand. "Your name isn't on the guest list, so how did you even get in here? Are you here to steal? Or is it something else? Are you here to take everyone's attention? Or worse, are you here for Lucien?"

At the mention of Lucien, Sophie's heart skipped a beat, but she maintained her composure. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, her voice quieter now.

Before Celine could push further, the door swung open. Lucien stepped inside, his expression dark as his gaze swept over the scene.

"Celine, what the hell is going on here?" he demanded.

Celine faltered, lowering the knife but keeping her fiery glare on Sophie. "She's not on the guest list, Lucien! She has no right to be here, and I'm trying to find out why."

Lucien strode forward, gently taking the knife from Celine's hand and placing it on the counter. "This is a party, not an interrogation," he said sternly. "Put the knife down and get a grip."

Celine crossed her arms, her anger simmering but subdued. "She's here for a reason, Lucien. I know it."

Lucien turned to Sophie, his sharp eyes studying her. Something about her was familiar—the way she held herself, the way she averted her gaze, and most notably, her voice.

"Thank you," Sophie said quickly, her voice trembling but polite. She lowered her head, avoiding his intense stare, and slipped past him, exiting the kitchen.

Lucien's gaze followed her, his thoughts churning. That voice… It's Sophie's voice. I know it.

Celine broke the silence, her voice sharp. "Why are you looking at her like that? Do you know her?"

Lucien turned to her, his expression unreadable. "Stop causing scenes, Celine. Focus on enjoying the party instead of making enemies."

But even as he said the words, his mind lingered on Sophie—or Isabelle Boucher, as she called herself. Not just her voice but her reaction to him, the way she seemed frightened yet familiar, stirred something deep within him.