She Was Never Just a Pretty Face novel Chapter 130

Luther tilted his head back, downing half a glass of champagne to suppress the churning emotions in his chest.

The golden liquid slid smoothly down his throat. The sharp bob of his Adam's apple was undeniably alluring.

He turned his gaze toward the ballroom entrance along with the rest of the crowd.

Hilda and Harrell were standing side by side.

Harrell, standing at a striking six-foot-two, wore a perfectly tailored black tuxedo. Beside him, Hilda was dressed in a sweeping white evening gown. Her long hair was elegantly pinned up, and a delicate diamond necklace rested against her collarbones. Her hand was tucked gracefully into the crook of Harrell's arm. Close in age and equally stunning, they looked exactly like a glamorous power couple.

The entire ballroom was stunned into absolute silence.

Hadn't they just said Harrell was arriving with The Bibliophile?

Why was Luther's wife, Hilda, standing right there?

But a second later, the realization hit everyone in the room like a freight train.

'First Love' was painted by Hilda. Hilda was The Bibliophile.

Jolie's face drained of all color. Before The Bibliophile had arrived, she had felt incredibly superior, absolutely certain she would outshine the mystery woman. She had never viewed The Bibliophile as a threat. If it hadn't been to get closer to Naomi, she never would have praised the artist in the first place.

In a million years, she never could have guessed that The Bibliophile was actually Hilda.

Jolie gripped her champagne flute so tightly it almost shattered.

She couldn't help but look at Luther.

His sharp, handsome eyes were incredibly dark and deep.

He was staring unblinkingly at Hilda, the expression on his face blatantly screaming that he was completely incapable of letting her go.

The sight drove Jolie to the brink of madness. And then, it clicked. Luther had known The Bibliophile's true identity all along. The only reason the 'First Love' painting had ended up back in Hilda's hands was probably because they had a massive fight over it. The sheer depth of the twisted, passionate love and hatred between Luther and Hilda made Jolie burn with an all-consuming jealousy.

Luther completely ignored the woman standing next to him.

His eyes were glued entirely to Hilda.

"No wonder she doesn't care about keeping her billionaire marriage. She's a powerhouse all on her own. Look at that luminous glow—does she look like a woman going through a divorce? And Luther's cousin is personally acting as her escort! Anyone with eyes can see Harrell is entirely taken with her. If those two cousins end up throwing down over her, this is going to be the show of the century."

"With talent like that, and a face like hers, do you have any idea how many men would line up just to worship the ground she walks on? A woman really just needs to know her own worth."

Amidst the sea of whispers, Luther's expression grew darker and darker.

But he wasn't the only one suffering. There was another man in the room even more shell-shocked than him: Damien.

He stared in absolute disbelief at the woman Naomi was leading up onto the stage.

It was her. The breathtaking goddess he had seen outside the cafe.

And she was Luther's wife. She was the legendary artist, The Bibliophile. She looked so pure, so elegant, so impossibly high above him. Even with Naomi clinging to her, she wore a soft, gentle smile. No, it was a deeply indulgent smile. The way she looked at Naomi was like watching a beloved younger sister causing trouble—so patient, so fiercely affectionate.

A dark, bitter envy twisted in Damien's chest. He desperately wanted her to look at him with that exact same indulgence.

He deeply resented that such a radiant, unattainable star refused to shine her light on him.