Chapter 5 - Hidden Agendas
A week passed in a state of armed neutrality.
The city seemed to hold its collective breath. Everyone in Luca’s inner circle knew the Santoros were gathering resources, yet Luca showed no outward signs of panic. If anything, the Moretti estate became tighter, a fortress of steel and watchful eyes. Additional security details patrolled the iron perimeter, and black SUVs were stationed at every entrance.
Despite my protests, Luca refused to let me resume my maid duties. Instead, he made an announcement that sent shockwaves through the household: I was officially reassigned as Sofia’s primary governess and private companion.
“You’re wasting your intelligence scrubbing baseboards,” Luca had told me in his study, handing me an employment contract with a salary four times what I had been making. “Sofia trusts you. I trust you. That makes you invaluable.”
For seven days, I felt like I was living a dream. I helped Sofia with her reading, played board games in the sunroom, and watched the color return to her cheeks. She clung to me like a little sister, and for the first time in my lonely life, I felt like I belonged somewhere.
And then came the invitation.
It arrived on thick, gold-embossed cardstock: *The Annual Children’s Hospital Charity Gala*, held at the prestigious Drake Hotel downtown. It was the premier high-society event of the season, hosted by the mayor’s wife.
Luca was a major benefactor. Skipping it was not an option; doing so would signal weakness or fear to the Santoro family, who were also guaranteed to attend.
“You’re coming with us,” Luca said over breakfast on the morning of the gala.
I nearly choked on my tea. “To the gala? Mr. Moretti, that’s impossible. I don't own clothes for an event like that, and besides, I’m just—”
“You are Sofia’s companion,” Luca cut in smoothly, setting down his tablet. “She gets overwhelmed in large crowds without her mother. You will be by her side in the VIP lounge. And as for the clothes…”
He glanced toward the dining room doorway, where Mrs. Gable entered carrying three large garment bags from a boutique on Michigan Avenue.
“Choose whichever you like,” Luca said, rising from the table. His dark eyes caught mine, lingering for a fraction of a second too long. “I want you looking the part.”
That evening, I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my suite, barely recognizing the woman looking back at me.
I had chosen a navy-blue silk gown with long lace sleeves that discreetly hid the lingering faint discoloration near my ribs. The neckline was modest yet elegant, cascading down into a fitted skirt that pooled slightly at the floor. My dark hair was swept up into a soft chignon, secured with silver pins Mrs. Gable had lent me.
When I walked down the grand staircase holding Sofia’s hand—she looked adorable in a white tulle dress with a matching navy sash—Luca was waiting at the bottom.
He was wearing a custom midnight-blue tuxedo that made him look like royalty. When his gaze lifted and landed on me, he stopped whatever he was saying to his head of security.
His eyes traced the line of the gown, moving up to my face. A slow, dark intensity flared in his pupils.
“You look… stunning, Emma,” he murmured, offering me his arm.
My cheeks burned red. “Thank you, Mr. Moretti.”
“Luca,” he corrected quietly, leaning down just enough so only I could hear. “Tonight, outside this house, you call me Luca.”
The Drake Hotel ballroom was a sea of jewels, tuxedoes, and champagne flutes. A full orchestra played on the elevated stage, while Chicago’s elite mingled under towering floral arches.
The moment Luca walked through the double doors with Sofia on one side and me on the other, the room’s chatter dropped by half. Heads turned. Whispers rippled across the crowd like wind through tall grass.
Everyone had heard that the Santoro engagement was broken. No one expected Luca to show up with a new, breathtaking woman holding his daughter’s hand.
Across the crowded room, standing near a towering champagne fountain, was Isabella Santoro.
She wore an emerald-green gown—deliberately identical in color to her discarded engagement ring. Her brother Lorenzo stood beside her, sipping scotch, while Marcus Santoro talked to a local senator.
When Isabella caught sight of me, her glass froze halfway to her lips.
Her eyes widened in pure, unadulterated shock, rapidly morphing into murderous rage. I was wearing a dress that cost more than my previous yearly salary, walking beside the most powerful man in Chicago, holding the hand of the child she had been trying to replace.
“Stay close to the security detail in the lounge,” Luca murmured, his hand gently resting against the small of my back. The heat of his palm through the silk was intoxicating. “I have to greet the mayor. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
“We’ll be fine,” I promised.
Luca nodded to two of his plainclothes guards, who followed Sofia and me into the adjacent family mezzanine—a quiet, velvet-lined room reserved for benefactors’ children to play and eat dessert away from the noisy main floor.
Sofia immediately ran over to the dessert table, enchanted by the towering macaron display. I sat on a plush settee nearby, watching her carefully, my heart still racing from the hostile stares in the ballroom.
Ten minutes later, a young catering waitress approached our table carrying a silver tray with two glasses of sparkling apple cider.
“For the little girl,” the waitress said politely, placing a crystal flute in front of Sofia. “Compliments of the host.”
Sofia beamed. “Thank you!” She reached for the glass.
Something flared in my gut. A sudden, cold prickle of instinct.
I looked at the waitress. Her hands were trembling slightly. Her eyes kept darting nervously toward the velvet curtain that separated the lounge from the service corridor.
“Wait, Sofia,” I said, reaching out and gently pulling her hand away from the glass.
“Emma? I want cider,” Sofia pouted.
I looked at the server. “Who sent this specifically?”
“The… the kitchen manager, ma'am,” the waitress stammered, taking a quick step backward.
May you like
Before I could question her further, the curtain parted, and Isabella Santoro stepped into the room.
***
