Chapter 7 - The Emerald Gown
By noon the following day, the mansion felt like the command center of an invading army.
The news of the Romano broken engagement hadn't leaked to the press yet—Luca’s communications team had locked down every digital channel leaving the estate—but the internal staff walked on eggshells. Mrs. Gable had been quietly dismissed and escorted off the grounds at sunrise. Jennings had taken total control of the household staff, replacing any worker who had shown previous loyalty to the Romano family.
At four in the afternoon, the double doors of my fourth-floor suite opened.
Two women wearing sleek black dresses wheeled in a mobile wardrobe rack carrying three massive garment bags, followed by a team of stylists carrying hair cases and makeup kits.
“Compliments of Mr. Moretti,” the lead stylist said with a crisp French accent. “We have four hours to prepare you for the red carpet.”
I stood frozen in the middle of the room as they unzipped the center garment bag.
The dress took my breath away.
It was an off-the-shoulder gown made of heavy, liquid-silk emerald velvet. The bodice was structured like a corset, tapering into a dramatic, sweeping skirt with a thigh-high slit lined with midnight-black satin. It wasn't the pastel, demure look high-society debutantes wore; it was royal, regal, and unapologetically bold.
Beside the gown lay a pair of elbow-length black silk gloves—specifically tailored to conceal the heavy bandage wrapped around my right palm.
When the stylists finished at seven-thirty, I turned to the full-length mirror.
I didn't recognize the woman looking back at me.
My hair was swept up into an intricate, elegant chignon, with soft tendrils framing my face. The makeup accentuated the sharp curve of my cheekbones and the green in my eyes, while the emerald velvet hugged every line of my body with terrifying precision. With the black silk gloves reaching past my elbows, there was no sign of the injured maid who had scrubbed the pantry floor seventy-two hours ago.
A knock sounded at the door.
I turned as Luca stepped into the suite.
He wore a custom black tuxedo with peak lapels, a crisp white shirt, and a black silk bow tie. He looked devastatingly handsome—every inch the ruthless prince of industry the tabloids worshipped and feared.
When his eyes landed on me, he stopped dead in his tracks.
The silence stretched for ten long seconds. His gaze traveled down the velvet gown, lingering on the exposed skin of my shoulders, the swell of my waist, the line of the black gloves, before returning to my face. A slow, dark intensity flared in his pupils.
“You look breathtaking,” he said, his voice dropping into a rough, low rumble.
“I feel like an imposter,” I admitted, my fingers tightening against the silk of my skirt. “They’re going to know, Luca. The moment I open my mouth, they’ll know I’m not one of them.”
Luca crossed the room in three strides. He stopped inches from me, reaching into his pocket.
He didn't pull out the Duchess Sapphire.
Instead, he pulled out a delicate platinum collar necklace encrusted with black diamonds, with a single, tear-drop emerald suspended at the center. He stepped behind me, his fingers grazing the bare skin of my neck as he fastened the clasp. A shiver raced down my spine at the contact.
“You don't need to be one of them,” Luca murmured against my ear, his hands resting lightly on my bare shoulders. “They are sheep, Emma. They spend their entire lives pretending to be powerful because of their fathers’ names. You survived the dark. You earned your scars. You don't bow to anyone in that room tonight.”
He stepped around to face me, offering his bent right arm.
“Are you ready?”
I looked at his arm. I took a deep, steadying breath, letting go of the terrified girl who had polished the silver tray in silence.
“I’m ready,” I said.
I slipped my gloved hand through the crook of his elbow.
The grand staircase descended directly into the two-story ballroom. Even from the top landing, the noise was deafening—the hum of hundreds of overlapping conversations, the clinking of crystal flutes, the swelling strains of a live twenty-piece chamber orchestra.
Every major media outlet in the state had camera crews positioned behind velvet ropes near the grand entrance, capturing footage of senators, foreign dignitaries, and tech moguls mingling beneath the massive crystal chandeliers.
We reached the top of the marble stairs.
The master of ceremonies, an older man with a booming voice, glanced up, tapped his microphone, and announced:
“Ladies and gentlemen… Mr. Luca Moretti.”
The entire ballroom fell silent in an instant. Hundreds of faces turned toward the staircase. Cameras flashed in a blinding wave of white light.
Beside me, Luca didn't hesitate. He began our descent down the marble steps with measured, effortless grace.
I kept my head held high, my eyes fixed straight ahead, matching his stride. As we descended, the initial polite applause began to sputter and die. Whispers swept through the crowd like wind through dry grass.
*“Who is that?”*
*“Where is Isabella?”*
*“Is that Victor Romano’s daughter? No, that’s not her…”*
*“Who is the girl in green?”*
We reached the bottom step. The crowd parted instinctively, giving Luca a wide berth as we moved toward the center of the ballroom.
Suddenly, a commotion erupted near the front entrance.
The heavy oak doors were shoved open violently. Security guards scrambled to intervene, but the man pushing through the crowd wasn't an uninvited guest.
It was Victor Romano.
He was disheveled, his tuxedo jacket unbuttoned, his tie askew, his face florid with rage. Behind him, flanked by two high-priced defense attorneys, was Isabella. She wore an ostentatious crimson gown, her eyes wild, her teeth bared like a cornered animal.
“Moretti!” Victor’s voice tore through the grand hall, cutting the classical music in half. The orchestra ground to an awkward, screeching halt.
The guests gasped, stepping backward to create a massive circular clearing in the center of the ballroom.
Luca didn't flinch. He didn't drop his arm from mine. He simply turned, facing the Romanos as if they were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
“Victor,” Luca said, his voice amplified by the stunned silence of the room. “I assumed my security team made it clear that your presence was no longer welcome on this estate.”
“You think you can play games with me, boy?” Victor snarled, marching into the clearing, ignoring the dozen camera crews recording every single second. “You break a legally binding commercial merger contract? You fabricate lies about port logistics to cover for the fact that you’re parading this… this servant girl on your arm?”
A collective, horrified murmur rippled through the high-society crowd.
*“A servant?”*
*“Did he say servant?”*
Isabella lunged forward, her voice piercing and hysterical. “She’s a maid! She’s the girl who was cleaning my guest suite three days ago! Luca threw away the Romano alliance for a back-alley thief who tried to steal his grandmother’s sapphire!”
The room exploded into frantic whispers. Camera shutters clicked in a deafening, continuous roar. The socialites stared at me, their eyes wide with disgust, shock, and salacious delight.
My heart hammered in my throat, but I remembered Luca’s words on the fourth floor.
*You don't bow to anyone in that room.*
I stood my ground, my chin lifted, my gloved hand firmly wrapped around Luca’s arm.
Luca didn't yell. He didn't lose his temper.
He calmly reached inside his tuxedo pocket, pulled out his phone, and tapped the screen once.
Instantly, the massive high-definition projector screens mounted on the ballroom walls—the ones meant to broadcast the ceremonial signing of the merger—flickered to life.
May you like
The entire room went dead silent.
***
