Chapter 3 - The Doors OpenThe oak doors of the grand dining room were soundproofed, but as I reached out and gripped the heavy brass handles, a low wave of polite chatter, silver clinking against bone china, and soft string quartet music bled through the seams.
Emily froze, her heels digging into the custom Turkish rug of the foyer. Her fingers tightened around my wrist with surprising strength.
“Claire, we can’t,” she breathed, panic flashing across her pale face. “Look at me. I look like a ghost. My coat is soaked through. Dad’s guests… they’re all business associates, politicians…”
“Your father is Luca Moretti,” I whispered back, giving her hand a firm, reassuring squeeze. “And you are his daughter. It’s time he found out what’s been happening under his own roof.”
Before she could pull away, I pushed the heavy doors open.
The sudden rush of warm air, scented with white lilies, expensive cedarwood, and roasted duck, washed over us. Thirty heads turned in unison. Conversations died instantly, replaced by a sudden, heavy vacuum of silence that felt heavier than lead.
And then Vanessa appeared over my shoulder, her face completely drained of color, her red silk gown rustling like a striking snake.
“Claire!” she hissed, lunging forward with her manicured claws extended to grab my arm. “You absolute lunatic! Get out! Get out right now before I have security throw you both into the alley!”
I didn't flinch. I kept my posture ramrod straight, my fingers linked securely with Emily’s cold hand as we stepped fully across the threshold.
Several guests at the head tables gasped. Whispers rippled through the room like a dry breeze through tall grass.
Vanessa’s expression shifted in a split second from homicidal rage to a sickening, practiced social smile as she realized half the room was watching her. She glided toward us on her gold stilettos, her voice dropping into a sugary, high-pitched simulation of hospitality.
“Emily, darling! What an absolute, wonderful surprise,” Vanessa trilled, though her fingers dug into Emily’s forearm with enough force to bruise. She lowered her voice so only we could hear. “You need to leave right this second. Do not make a scene.”
“No,” I said clearly.
Vanessa turned her head so fast I thought her neck might snap. Her eyes locked onto mine with pure, unadulterated venom. “You desperate little maid. You are finished. Do you hear me? Finished!” Her hand closed around my wrist, her sharp acrylic nails biting into my skin. “I told you to put her in a cab!”
A heavy mahogany chair scraped violently across the marble floor at the far end of the long banquet table.
The sound cut through the murmurs like a gunshot.
Luca Moretti stood up.
He was in his late fifties, his dark hair threaded heavily with silver at the temples, wearing a tailored charcoal tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders to perfection. But nobody was looking at his suit.
Luca wasn't looking at me. He wasn't looking at Vanessa.
His dark, piercing eyes were locked entirely onto Emily. And more specifically, descending slowly from her pale, tear-stained face down to the unmistakable, beautiful curve swelling beneath her simple navy dress.
The heavy silver fork in his right hand slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against his porcelain plate before bouncing onto the floor.
The silence in the room was absolute. You could have heard a pin drop on the rug.
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Luca took a slow, disbelieving step away from his seat. His voice, when it came out, wasn't a shout. It was a breathless, shattered whisper that carried across the entire room.
“Emily?”
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