Chapter 4 - The Society Gala
By the end of the month, the annual Vance Global Foundation Gala was set to take place at the Plaza Hotel in Manhattan. It was the premier high-society event of the season—a gathering of billionaires, politicians, and media moguls where millions of dollars were raised for pediatric medical research.
Historically, the twins were brought out for fifteen minutes at the beginning of the evening for a photo opportunity before being swept away by nanny staff.
This year, Mrs. Gable took it upon herself to inform me of my duties.
“You will remain in the holding suite on the fourth floor of the Plaza with the children, Miss Hayes,” Mrs. Gable said coldly, holding a clipboard in the grand foyer two days before the event. “You will ensure their dresses remain spotless until seven-thirty PM sharp, at which point you will hand them over to Mr. Vance’s executive assistant for the red carpet photos.”
“I’m taking them to the red carpet myself, Mrs. Gable,” I said calmly, arranging fresh flowers in the entry vase. “Mr. Vance specifically requested that I stay with them throughout the entire evening.”
Mrs. Gable’s jaw snapped shut. Her eyes flashed with bitter, venomous hatred.
“You don't belong at the Plaza, girl,” Mrs. Gable hissed, stepping in close, dropping her polished facade. “You are a janitor from the Bronx. Do you think because Mr. Vance pays you a bloated salary and lets you sit at his table that you are one of them? The people at that gala will laugh you out of the room the moment you open your mouth.”
I slowly set down the flower shears, turned around, and looked Mrs. Gable up and down.
“Mrs. Gable,” I said, my voice silky smooth and ice-cold. “I spent ten years scrubbing the floors those people walk on. I know exactly what they look like, what they smell like, and how dirty they leave their private rooms. I am not intimidated by money. But if you speak to me in that tone again, I will personally ask Mr. Vance to audit the estate expense reports you’ve been managing for the last three years.”
Mrs. Gable went pale. A flicker of genuine panic crossed her eyes before she whipped around and marched off toward the kitchen without another word.
I had bluffed—I had no idea if her books were dirty—but her reaction told me everything I needed to know.
On the night of the gala, the Plaza Hotel was a glittering palace of flashbulbs, diamond necklaces, and tuxedos.
I had bought a simple, floor-length dark emerald gown from a consignment shop in Brooklyn using my own savings—refusing to let Julian pay for it. I wore my hair swept up in a soft bun, carrying no jewelry except for a silver pendant my mother had given me for my eighteenth birthday.
When I stepped into the holding suite at the Plaza where Julian was waiting with the girls, he stopped dead in his tracks.
Julian wore a bespoke black tuxedo that made him look impossibly handsome and commanding. But his eyes were locked entirely on me. He took in the green dress, the elegant sweep of my neck, and the quiet, radiant dignity I wore like armor.
“Victoria,” Julian murmured, his voice low and deep. “You look... stunning.”
“Thank you, Julian,” I said, feeling a flush of heat rise up my neck. “The girls look like angels.”
Abigail and Vanessa were dressed in matching white silk dresses with silver sashes, looking like miniature princesses.
“Miss Victoria!” Vanessa beamed, rushing over to hold my hand. “You look like a fairy tale!”
At seven-thirty sharp, the executive assistant knocked on the door. “Mr. Vance, the red carpet press line is ready for you.”
Julian extended his arm toward me. “Shall we?”
I looked at his arm, then at the door. “Julian... I don't need to go out on the red carpet. The press—”
“I want you with us, Victoria,” Julian said firmly, his gray eyes leaving no room for argument. “The girls are safe with you. And so am I.”
We walked down the grand marble hallway toward the ballroom entrance. The roar of the media was deafening. Flashes erupted like lightning, blinding and disorienting. Cameras clicked rapidly as journalists shouted Julian’s name.
“Julian! Over here!” “Mr. Vance! Is this the new venture?” “Julian, who is the woman with the children?”
Julian kept his arm firmly anchored to mine, his hand resting over my fingers, while his other hand held Abigail’s. I held Vanessa’s hand tightly as we posed for the photographers.
Suddenly, a sharp, piercing voice cut through the media din.
Standing near the press line was a tall, strikingly beautiful blonde woman in a red silk designer dress. She wore diamonds that could buy a small country, and her face was frozen in an expression of absolute, calculated disgust.
It was Lady Eleanor Sterling—a high-society socialite, heiress to a steel fortune, and the woman the tabloids had spent two years predicting would become the second Mrs. Julian Vance.
Eleanor stepped right past the velvet security rope, ignoring the security guards who scrambled to give her room, and walked straight up to Julian.
“Julian, darling,” Eleanor cooed, pressing a fake kiss to his cheek before casting a scathing, derogatory look down at me. “Who on earth is your new staff member? She’s certainly not dressed like the previous nannies.”
The cameras went wild, flashes exploding everywhere, eager to capture the confrontation between the society queen and the mystery woman.
Julian’s posture went rigid, his face turning to pure granite. “Eleanor. This is Victoria Hayes. She is the governess for my daughters.”
Eleanor let out a sharp, tinkling laugh that sounded like breaking glass. “A governess? Oh, sweetie, I heard the security reports from Midtown. She’s the cleaning woman from the subway station!”
A collective hush fell over the surrounding reporters. Microphones were thrust forward.
Eleanor stepped closer to me, her eyes glinting with malicious triumph. “Tell me, dear,” she sneered quietly, ensuring her voice carried toward the press corps. “Does Mr. Vance pay you extra to scrub the floors in that cheap consignment dress, or are you just angling for a permanent promotion?”
I felt the blood drain from my face. The humiliation threatened to swallow me whole. The flashing cameras felt like hot irons burning into my skin.
Before I could open my mouth, before Julian could unleash the fury building in his chest, five-year-old Vanessa stepped forward.
May you like
She let go of my hand, wrapped both of her small arms around my waist, looked up at Eleanor Sterling with pure, unfiltered disgust, and shouted at the top of her lungs so every reporter in the lobby could hear:
“Leave my Mommy alone!”
