Chapter 3 - The Gala of Vipers
The grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel glittered under ten thousand crystal chandeliers, overflowing with Manhattan’s elite, corrupt politicians, and high-society socialites draped in diamonds that cost more than my entire apartment building. Flashbulbs popped blindingly against the walls as high-profile guests mingled over flutes of champagne and caviar.
I stood beside Damian near the center of the room, wearing a stunning, backless emerald-green silk gown that Silas had procured for me that afternoon. My hair was swept up into an elegant chignon, and a diamond-encrusted tennis bracelet sparkled coldly around my wrist—a visible token of my new status as the untouchable queen of the underworld's apex predator.
Damian’s hand rested firmly at the small of my back, his warm palm pressing against the silk of my dress, anchoring me amidst the swirling sea of sharks.
"Smile, cara," Damian whispered near my ear, his breath warm against my neck as a reporter flashed a camera in our direction. "The vultures are watching."
"I am smiling," I muttered through gritted teeth, keeping my expression serene and radiant for the lenses while my heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "My face is starting to cramp, but I'm smiling."
A low murmur rippled through the crowd near the grand staircase, and the sea of people parted to make way for a tall, silver-haired man with razor-sharp aristocratic features and an impeccably tailored navy tuxedo. Alistair Thorne. He walked with the arrogant swagger of a man who owned the city council and had half the federal prosecutor's office in his pocket. Beside him walked a polished, glacial woman who stared at me with undisguised contempt.
Alistair stopped directly in front of us, his pale blue eyes gleaming with predatory amusement as he looked from Damian to me.
"Damian," Alistair greeted smoothly, his voice carrying effortlessly across the quieted perimeter of the room. "I must congratulate you. Rumor had it your syndicate was losing its grip on the waterfront, but it appears you've pivoted into... rescuing stray kittens from Queens."
The insult hung in the air like poison. Several nearby socialites gasped softly, covering their mouths with jeweled fans.
Damian didn't flinch. His expression remained carved from ice as he shifted his weight slightly, stepping half an inch in front of me to create an impenetrable barrier. "The waterfront is secure, Alistair. As for my fiancée, I would watch your tongue. You are standing in polite society now, not scheming in your corporate backrooms."
Alistair chuckled, a dry, mocking sound. "Polite society? Surely you don't expect us to believe this hasty engagement is legitimate, Mr. Russo. Everyone knows Miss Hayes comes from a disgraced former cop family living in a tenement. Give it a month, and she'll either run back to her slum or end up like her father—broken and forgotten."
Before Damian could move, before Silas could step out from the shadows near the catering doors, something snapped inside me. All the fear, all the exhaustion, all the humiliation of being treated like a pawn in a game played by monsters boiled over into pure, cold fury.
I stepped out from behind Damian’s shoulder, my hazel eyes locking onto Alistair Thorne with absolute, unblinking disdain.
"My father wore a badge and tried to keep this city clean while men like you paid bribes in the dark to build your empires on stolen land," I said, my voice ringing out clear and steady across the silent ballroom, carrying effortlessly to every corner of the room. "And as for my engagement to Damian—at least I chose my partner voluntarily. Unlike you, Alistair, who had to bury your first three business partners under mysterious circumstances just to acquire controlling shares of your initial real estate portfolio."
Alistair’s face drained of color in an instant, his mouth dropping open in genuine shock. The surrounding crowd erupted into immediate, frantic whispering.
Alistair’s eyes flashed with blind rage. "You little bitch—"
"Enough," Damian cut in, his voice dropping into a terrifying, lethal register that silenced the entire ballroom instantly. He stepped forward, towering over Alistair. "If you ever speak to my future wife with disrespect again, Mr. Thorne, I won't wait for the municipal elections to ruin you. I will dismantle your entire corporate holding company piece by piece before breakfast."
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Alistair glared at us with pure venom, unable to formulate a response under the crushing weight of Damian's threat. He spun on his heel and stormed away into the crowd, dragging his companion with him.
Damian turned slowly to look down at me, his dark eyes wide with a mixture of profound shock and burning, undeniable admiration.
