Chapter 6 - The Whispers of Power
By morning, the city was in an uproar.
The news of Arthur Hawthorne’s arrest for wire fraud and the public dissolution of the Duca-Hawthorne merger dominated every business page and gossip column. But what fascinated the city even more was the mystery woman in the emerald-green dress who had walked out of the Drake Hotel on Adrien Duca’s arm.
Tabloids ran front-page photos of Clara, calling her "The Pilsen Seamstress" and "The Plus-Size Beauty Who Brought Duca to His Knees."
At eleven o'clock, a sleek silver limousine pulled up outside Bennett Alterations.
A tall, formidable woman in an immaculate ivory wool coat stepped out, supported by a silver-headed cane. It was Eleanor Duca—Adrien’s grandmother, the matriarch who had managed the Duca family trust for forty years.
The shop bell chimed as Eleanor stepped inside. Molly, Clara’s apprentice, nearly dropped a box of brass buttons in panic.
“Are you Clara Bennett?” Eleanor asked, her voice sharp as steel, her dark eyes sweeping over the small shop with terrifying scrutiny.
Clara stepped out from the back fitting room, holding a steam iron. She didn't bow, she didn't stammer, and she didn't hide.
“I am, Mrs. Duca,” Clara said politely. “How can I help you today?”
Eleanor walked slowly toward the worktable, resting both hands on her cane. “My grandson destroyed a twelve-thousand-dollar piece of Italian satin in this room four days ago. Then he ruined a forty-million-dollar corporate merger last night. And this morning, he instructed his personal legal team to transfer the deed of this building to your personal name.”
Clara paused, setting the steam iron down on its brass resting plate. “He didn't tell me about the deed.”
“He wouldn't,” Eleanor said coldly. “Adrien acts first and explains never. He’s a Duca. But you... you are an outsider. A tailor from Pilsen with no lineage, no corporate backing, and a body that doesn't fit the social expectations of our circle.”
Clara met the old matriarch’s stare without a single tremor of fear.
“My body fits my clothes perfectly, Mrs. Duca,” Clara said with a calm, sweet smile. “And my lineage consists of honest women who earned every dollar they ever touched with their own hands. If you came here to buy me off or intimidate me, I’m afraid you’ve wasted a trip out of the Gold Coast.”
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Eleanor stared at Clara for three long seconds. The icy composure on the old woman’s face suddenly fractured, replaced by a deep, booming laugh that echoed through the small shop.
“By God,” Eleanor chuckled, shaking her head. “Adrien wasn't exaggerating. You really aren't afraid of anything, are you?”
