Chương 7 - The Rehearsal Gala
By Thursday evening, the war had shifted from the oily concrete of Newark back to the gilded salons of the North Shore.
The annual pre-gala dinner was hosted in the grand ballroom of the estate—a space lined with mirrors, gold leaf, and arched French doors opening onto the terrace. Two hundred guests—judges, shipping magnates, city commissioners, and the extended branches of the Moretti dynasty—mingled beneath the crystal chandeliers, their diamonds catching the light like shards of ice.
I stood at the top of the grand staircase, wearing the emerald-green silk gown Vivienne had chosen.
The silk fell like liquid over my hips, pooling slightly at the floor. The open back plunged to the base of my spine, held up by two delicate straps that crossed between my shoulder blades. My dark hair had been pinned up in an intricate, loose twist, leaving the line of my neck and shoulders completely bare. On my left hand, the eight-carat diamond caught every beam of light in the hall.
Adrian stood beside me in a bespoke midnight-blue tuxedo that made him look like a foreign prince who had conquered an empire before breakfast.
He offered his arm.
"Ready?" he murmured, looking down at me. His eyes were dark, heavy with an intensity that made the silk of my dress feel too thin.
"Ready," I said, slipping my hand into the crook of his elbow.
As we descended the stairs, the murmur in the ballroom began to die down.
Heads turned. Conversations faltered.
I felt the weight of two hundred gazes landing on us—calculating, assessing, looking for the flaw in the diamond. But I didn't look down. I remembered Rosa’s words: *You don't curtsy, and you don't look down.*
At the foot of the stairs, Rosa sat in an ornate armchair of carved gilt and crimson velvet, looking like an empress holding court. Beside her stood Julian—his face pale, sporting a faint purple bruise along his jaw where Adrian had slammed him against the table two days earlier. He kept his eyes locked on his shoes, refusing to look at his brother.
Marco stood a few feet away, sipping champagne, his eyes dark with murderous frustration. The news of Berth 14’s miraculous operation had spread through the shipping community by noon on Wednesday; Adrian’s position had never been stronger.
"Donna Rosa," I said, stepping forward with Adrian and bowing my head with graceful deference.
Rosa looked at me. Her sharp green eyes traveled from the emerald silk up to my face, lingering on the antique diamond on my finger.
A slow, satisfied smile touched her lips.
"Magnificent," the old woman declared, loud enough for half the room to hear. "She looks like a Moretti, Adrian. Not like those pale twigs you used to bring home from Manhattan."
A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the nearby guests.
Adrian smiled—a genuine, radiant smile that completely transformed his harsh face. He leaned down, kissed his mother's cheek, and then turned to the room.
"Enjoy the evening, everyone," Adrian announced, his arm sliding smoothly around my waist, pulling me flush against his side. "The music is waiting."
The orchestra near the terrace began to play a slow, sweeping waltz.
Adrian led me onto the polished parquet floor. He didn't ask; he simply drew me into the dance. His right hand settled against the bare skin of my back, his warm palm resting against my spine just above the dip of the emerald silk. A shiver ran through me at the contact, sharp and intoxicating.
He took my left hand in his, our fingers interlacing, the diamond resting cold against his knuckles.
"You look stunning," he murmured, his voice low, private, meant only for me as he guided me into the turn.
"Vivienne knows what she's doing," I replied, trying to maintain my composure as the room blurred around us in a swirl of gold, black, and crystal.
"Vivienne provided the fabric," Adrian said, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. "You provide the fire."
We moved together with an effortless grace that surprised me. Two years of working together had taught our bodies a strange, synchronized rhythm; we moved like two halves of a single machine. Every turn, every step was seamless.
"Julian looks miserable," I noted, glancing over his shoulder.
"Julian is realizing that his trust fund depends entirely on my goodwill," Adrian said coldly. "And Marco is realizing that his union leverage is evaporating. By tomorrow night, the succession will be sealed."
He pulled me closer, eliminating the space between us until my chest was pressed against his tuxedo, his thighs brushing against mine with every sweeping measure of the music.
"And what about us?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
The music seemed to slow down. Adrian’s gaze softened, the ruthless CEO disappearing, leaving only the man who had kissed me on the soot-stained floor of Pier 8.
"There is no 'us' that ends on Sunday, Emily," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I thought I could do this. I thought I could hire you, use your brilliance to save this company, and then let you go back to your desk."
He spun me slowly beneath his arm, pulling me back against his chest with a gentle, firm possessiveness.
"I was wrong," he whispered against my temple. "I don't want an assistant anymore. I want you. In my house. In my bed. In my life."
My heart felt as if it were about to burst through my ribs. The grandeur of the ballroom, the whispers of the guests, the danger of his family—all of it faded into white noise.
"Adrian... the contract—"
"I will burn it," he said fiercely. "Tomorrow morning. I will put the fifty thousand in your account for Leo, and then I will tear the paper into ash. If you stay, you stay because you love me. Not because of a retainer."
Tears pricked the backs of my eyes—hot, stinging, and real.
I looked up into his fierce, beautiful green eyes, and I knew. I had known since that rainy night in Midtown. I had known since the first time he looked at me across a stack of ledgers and saw someone worthy of respect.
"I love you," I whispered.
The words were soft, barely louder than the rustle of my silk dress, but Adrian heard them. His step faltered for a fraction of a second. His green eyes blazed with a light so fierce it took my breath away.
He didn't speak. He simply pulled me tighter against him, burying his face in my hair as the music soared to its crescendo.
For three minutes, in that golden ballroom surrounded by wolves, I was the happiest woman in the world.
May you like
And then, as the dance ended and the applause rippled through the hall, I saw Marco slipping through the terrace doors, a thin, triumphant smile on his face, holding a manila folder beneath his arm.
***
