Chapter 4 - The Public Masquerade
By Friday evening, the masquerade reached its first major trial.
The Annual Chicago Heritage Gala was held at the Drake Hotel—a gathering of the city’s political elite, industrial tycoons, and high-society socialites. To the public, it was a charity event for the opera house. To the underworld, it was the neutral ground where the syndicate families negotiated their territories.
Inside the grand dressing room of the estate, three celebrity stylists had spent three hours preparing me.
I stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror, barely recognizing the woman staring back. I wore a backless, emerald-green silk gown that clung to my curves like liquid water, its hem trailing softly on the floor. My dark hair was swept up into an elegant, vintage chignon, accented by a three-carat diamond necklace Vincent had placed around my neck himself twenty minutes ago.
The door behind me opened.
Vincent stepped into the room, dressed in a flawless black tuxedo. He stopped in his tracks, his obsidian eyes sweeping over me with a look of such intense, silent admiration that my heart leaped into my throat.
"You are breathtaking, Emily," he said, his voice lower than usual.
"I feel like an imposter," I admitted, turning to face him, my hands nervously smoothing the silk of my dress. "These diamonds... this dress... it’s not who I am."
"It is who you are tonight," Vincent said, walking up to me. He pulled a small velvet box from his pocket, opened it, and extracted a breathtaking platinum ring set with a flawless emerald-cut diamond.
He took my left hand. His fingers were warm, steady, and large against mine.
"May I?" he asked quietly.
I nodded, unable to speak.
He slipped the ring onto my ring finger. The weight of it felt symbolic, binding me to a man whose world I was only beginning to understand.
"Remember the rules for tonight," Vincent instructed, his face inches from mine. "Stay within three feet of me at all times. If Arthur approaches you, do not speak to him. Look at me, touch my arm, and let me handle the conversation. To the world tonight... you love me."
"And do I?" I asked, a sudden spark of defiance breaking through my nervousness. "Love you?"
Vincent’s lips curved into a dark, intoxicating smile. "A woman who married Vincent Moretti doesn't just love him, Emily. She owns him. Show them that."
Ten minutes later, our limousine pulled up to the red carpet outside the Drake Hotel.
The moment the door opened, a wall of camera flashes erupted! Dozens of reporters shouted questions, their voices overlapping in a deafening roar:
"Mr. Moretti! Is it true you were married in secret?!" "Who is the woman, Vincent?!" "Is she connected to the Vance family of Ohio?!"
Vincent stepped out first, adjusting his cuffs. He turned, extended his hand, and helped me out of the vehicle. The moment my silk-clad leg touched the carpet, the camera flashes doubled in intensity!
I felt a surge of panic, the bright lights blinding me.
Instantly, Vincent’s arm wrapped securely around my waist, pulling my hips flush against his side. The broad, solid wall of his body shielded me from the crowd. I looked up at him, instinctively resting my hand against his crisp tuxedo jacket.
He looked down at me, his expression softening into a look of such radiant, possessive devotion that the entire press line went dead silent for two full seconds.
We walked into the grand ballroom, the heavy oak doors closing behind us, shutting out the press noise.
The ballroom was magnificent—crystal chandeliers, live orchestral music, and hundreds of guests in formal attire. But as we entered, a ripple of quiet swept across the room. Heads turned. Conversations died mid-sentence.
Standing near the main bar area was an older man with silver hair, sharp blue eyes, and a cruel, thin smile.
Arthur Vance.
Beside Arthur stood a man I recognized instantly.
May you like
My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit.
It was Ryan. My ex-husband. Dressed in an ill-fitting rented tuxedo, holding a glass of cheap champagne, looking entirely out of his depth—and utterly terrified as his eyes met mine.
