Chapter 3 - The Gala’s Edge
The Grand Ballroom of the Drake Hotel was a sea of black ties, diamonds, and champagne flutes.
The annual Maritime Gala was the event of the season, and tonight it was meant to celebrate the formal union of Duca Shipping and Hawthorne Logistics. Photographers lined the velvet carpet outside, their flashes blinding as Vanessa Hawthorne arrived in a sweeping metallic gown, her arm linked with her father’s.
“Where is Adrien?” Vanessa asked her father beneath her breath, her smile fixed for the cameras. “He was supposed to meet us at the VIP entrance twenty minutes ago.”
“He’s probably finishing the terminal transfer paperwork with his legal team,” Arthur replied smoothly, adjusting his cuff links. “Don't worry, my dear. Once those contracts are signed tonight, the Duca board won't be able to touch us.”
Inside the ballroom, the whispers began at eight-thirty.
The heavy brass doors swung open, but Adrien Duca did not enter alone, nor did he enter with his legal team.
Beside him walked Clara Bennett.
She wore an emerald-green velvet gown she had hand-tailored herself—a gown that hugged her lush curves with regal precision, exposing the elegant line of her collarbone and shoulders. A simple vintage sapphire necklace rested against her skin. She didn't look like a woman trying to fit into high society; she looked like a woman who owned the room simply by standing in it.
The room fell into a stunned, suffocating hush.
Vanessa turned around, her glass of champagne freezing halfway to her lips. Her eyes widened in horror as she saw the "oversized seamstress" walking beside her fiancé, Adrien’s hand resting firmly at the small of Clara’s back.
“Adrien!” Vanessa marched forward, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. “What is the meaning of this? Who allowed her into this room?”
Adrien didn't speed up his pace. He stopped near the center floor, his posture imposing and cold.
“Clara is my guest,” Adrien said, his voice carrying easily over the hushed crowd. “And considering she redesigned the wardrobe for tonight’s announcement, her presence is entirely required.”
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Arthur Hawthorne rushed over, his face red with mounting anger. “Duca, this is an outrage! The press is here! The board is here! What kind of joke are you playing?”
“I don't play jokes, Arthur,” Adrien said, pulling a thin leather binder from his jacket and handing it to the chairman of the Duca board, who was standing nearby. “That is the forensic audit report of Hawthorne Logistics’ offshore accounts in Panama. As of four o'clock today, the federal prosecutor has issued a freeze on all assets associated with your firm.”
