Chapter 6 - The Dinner Party
Two weeks later, the fragile peace of the estate was tested by an old-world tradition that Julian could not easily dodge: the annual Boston Shipping Syndicate Gala.
Held at a private, heavily guarded estate on the coast of Newport, the gala brought together all the major players of the New England underworld—shipping magnates, politicians in deep debt, and ruthless syndicate bosses who tested each other's boundaries like wolves circling a wounded stag.
Julian had initially planned to skip it. But Victor insisted. "If you don't show strength, the Moretti family will think you're distracted by the boy and the new nanny. They'll smell blood."
Julian agreed, on one strict condition: Wren would attend with him.
When Wren saw the dress Julian had had custom-delivered to her room—a stunning, deep emerald silk gown that hugged her soft curves and cascaded gracefully to the floor—she almost panicked.
"I can't wear this, Mrs. Higgins," Wren protested, staring at her reflection in the full-length mirror. "I look like I'm playing dress-up. I'm just a bakery-truck girl, remember?"
Mrs. Higgins smiled—a rare, genuine expression. "Mr. Castellan doesn't make mistakes when it comes to investments, Miss Calloway. And trust me, you are the best investment he's ever made."
When Wren walked down the grand staircase into the foyer, Julian was waiting at the bottom.
He looked up, and for a fraction of a second, the breath caught in his throat. In the emerald silk gown, with her dark hair swept up in an elegant chignon and soft pearls resting against her collarbone, Wren didn't look clumsy or out of place. She looked breathtaking. Real, vibrant, and glowing with an inner light that completely outshone the high-society women who usually populated Julian's world.
Julian stepped forward, offering his arm. "You look extraordinary, Wren."
"Thank you," she whispered, her cheeks flushing pink as she rested her hand lightly in the crook of his arm.
When they arrived at the Newport gala, the glittering ballroom instantly fell dead silent. Whispers rippled through the crowd of silk-clad socialites and armed bodyguards.
“Who is that with him?” “Where is Delphine?” “That’s the nanny from the tabloids?”
Julian ignored them completely. He kept his hand firmly at Wren’s waist, guiding her through the sea of predators with the absolute authority of a king walking with his queen.
Near the champagne bar stood Marco Moretti, the head of the rival Boston faction—a dangerous, slick-haired man with cold eyes and a predatory smile. Moretti stepped directly into their path, raising his glass in a mock toast.
"Julian," Moretti purred, his eyes scanning Wren up and down with vulgar amusement. "I see you’ve upgraded your domestic staff. Tell me, does she clean the silver as well as she plays nanny? Or is she just keeping your bed warm while you mourn your late wife?"
The entire ballroom held its breath. Syndicate bosses reached discreetly for concealed firearms under their dinner jackets. A direct insult to a Castellan in public meant blood.
Julian didn't blink. His face hardened into a mask of pure, glacial terror. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't reach for a weapon.
He simply stepped forward, invading Moretti’s personal space until the rival boss was forced to lean back.
"Keep her name out of your filthy mouth, Moretti," Julian whispered, his voice carrying the terrifying promise of a slaughterhouse. "Or the next shipment your cargo ships carry will be your own caskets. Do we understand each other?"
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Moretti swallowed hard, the color draining from his face as he stared into the bottomless abyss of Julian’s eyes. He forced a stiff, trembling smile. "Just... a joke, Julian. My apologies."
Julian didn't accept the apology. He turned away, guiding a trembling Wren out onto the starlit terrace away from the suffocating crowd.
