The teapot hit the marble floor without breaking, but the maid’s scream split my dining room apart. By the time I looked from the burn spreading across Elena’s arm to the woman wearing my engagement ring, I already knew Camille had just shown me exactly who she was—and she had done it in front of everyone.

The annual Boston Cultural Gala was the grandest social event of the year—a gathering of New England’s wealthiest elite, politicians, and old-money families inside the grand ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton.

For weeks, the rumors had been circulating that Gabriel Moretti would attend alone, brooding over the collapse of his engagement to Camille Vance.

At eight o'clock, the heavy gilded doors of the ballroom opened.

A collective gasp swept through the crowd of three hundred guests.

I walked into the ballroom wearing an immaculate black tuxedo. On my arm was Elena.

She was stunning. She wore a custom floor-length gown of deep emerald velvet that complemented her fair skin and dark hair, which was styled in elegant waves over her shoulders. Around her neck was a delicate platinum necklace featuring a single, brilliant emerald that had belonged to my late mother.

She carried herself with quiet, breathtaking grace, her hand resting securely on my arm.

Beside the grand fountain in the center of the ballroom stood Camille Vance, wearing a dramatic scarlet dress, surrounded by a group of wealthy socialites.

When Camille saw us, her wine glass slipped from her hand, shattering on the marble floor—a poetic echo of the night her teapot hit my dining room floor.

"Is that... is that the maid?!" one of the women beside Camille gasped loudly.

"My God... Gabriel Moretti brought his servant to the Cultural Gala?!" another whispered.

Camille’s face twisted into an expression of pure, unadulterated venom. She shoved past her friends and marched straight toward us, her heels clicking angrily against the floor.

"Gabriel!" Camille shrieked, her voice drawing the attention of every billionaire, senator, and news photographer in the room. "Have you lost your mind?! You bring a common housemaid to the Ritz-Carlton wearing your mother's emeralds?!"

The ballroom went deathly quiet. Camera flashes began going off like lightning.

I didn't move. I simply looked down at Camille with cold, amused contempt.

"You should watch your tone, Camille," I said, my voice carrying clearly across the silent room. "You are speaking to the future mistress of the Moretti estate."

Gasps erupted throughout the ballroom.

Camille went pale, her eyes bulging in utter disbelief. "Future mistress?! You're going to marry a servant?!"

"Elena possesses more dignity, honor, and grace in her pinky finger than you or your entire family ever displayed," I stated firmly, taking Elena’s hand and holding it up for everyone to see. "She earned her place beside me not through money or corporate political schemes, but through her heart."

Elena stood tall beside me, meeting Camille’s hateful glare without a single flinch.

"You threw hot tea at me because you thought I was worthless, Camille," Elena said, her voice clear, strong, and unwavering. "But Gabriel saw my worth. And no matter how many diamonds you wear, you will always be the woman who was thrown out of his house for being a coward."

The socialites around us began whispering furiously, many of them nodding in agreement, thoroughly enjoying the public destruction of Camille Vance's social standing.

Camille looked around the room, realizing that every powerful family in Boston was now staring at her with disgust. Tears of humiliation spilled down her cheeks as she turned and fled the ballroom, hiding her face from the flashing cameras.