Chapter 13
920 Words
The fabric of the emerald-green gown felt completely foreign against my skin, smooth and heavy in a way that made me feel entirely exposed. I wasn't a dress person
Heaven knows my usual uniform consisted of grease-stained denim, oversized sweaters, and work boots covered in chemical residue. Standing in the middle of the grand, marble-floored foyer of the auction gala, I felt like an imposter who had stolen a ticket to a royal court.
The dress had been delivered to my apartment along with the invitation—a tailored masterpiece that fit every curve perfectly, as if whoever ordered it knew my exact measurements by heart.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the main ballroom. The sheer opulence of the room was staggering.
Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls from the vaulted ceiling, casting a brilliant, fracturing light over hundreds of wealthy guests clad in diamonds and tailored tuxedos.
I braced myself to blend into the shadows, expecting to be ignored or looked down upon by the elite crowd.
Instead, as I walked further into the room, the conversations nearest to me began to quiet down.
Heads turned. It started with a few subtle glances from older gentlemen, then whispers among the women, until a distinct wave of attention seemed to follow my path across the floor.
My hair, usually thrown into a messy, utilitarian knot, fell down my back in soft waves, and without the dust and exhaustion of the workshop clouding my features, a hidden beauty I forgot I even possessed had found its way to the surface. I wasn't just blending in; I was inadvertently becoming the center of attention.
"You look entirely out of your element, yet you're completely commanding the room," a smooth, familiar voice murmured right behind my shoulder.
I turned to find Damiano standing there, looking devastatingly sharp in a bespoke black tuxedo. His dark eyes swept over me, filled with that same quiet admiration I had caught a glimpse of weeks ago, though he kept his expression perfectly masked for the crowd around us.
"I don't belong here, Damiano," I whispered, keeping my voice low so the nearby guests wouldn't hear the tremor in it. "Why am I here?"
"Step outside with me," he replied softly, tilting his head toward the arched glass doors leading to the private terrace. "Let's discuss it away from the sharks."
As he placed a hand lightly at the small of my back to guide me, the low hum of polite conversation among the guests took on a distinctly sharper, more curious edge. The subtle shift in the ballroom hadn't gone unnoticed.
"Who is she?" a woman in sapphire silk whispered loudly enough for the sound to carry over the classical music. "I've never seen her at any of the charity galas. Is she one of the European contract partners?"
"Look at the way he’s looking at her," an older man murmured to his companion, leaning in closer. "Damiano doesn't escort anyone personally unless there's a massive stake involved.
Either she's the heir to a private collection we don't know about, or the DiGiovanni bachelor is finally making a statement."
The speculative glances followed us like a spotlight, the elite crowd immediately trying to calculate my worth and my place by his side. By the time the heavy glass doors clicked shut behind us, the rumor mill was already spinning out of control inside.
The night air on the terrace was crisp and cool, a welcome relief from the suffocating heat of the ballroom. I walked to the stone railing, gripping the edge to steady my hands. Damiano followed, stepping up beside me but leaving just enough space between us that I didn't feel entirely cornered.
"There is no issue with the Winter Tear, is there?" I asked, cutting straight to the point.
A slow, knowing smile touched his lips.
"The reconstruction is perfect, Madeline. I knew it would be. The note was simply the most effective way to guarantee your attendance."
"You lied to me," I said, a spark of my usual anger flaring up despite the elegant dress.
"Just to drag me out here like a prop?"
"Not a prop. An asset," Damiano corrected, his tone turning serious as he leaned back against the railing. "I brought you here so you could see the scale of the world your talent belongs in.
You are wasting away in the slums, making absolute pennies to patch up junk, when your hands are capable of handling the finest history this city has to offer."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, matte-black folder, placing it on the stone ledge between us.
"This is a formal contract with Romano DiGiovanni," Damiano said, his voice dropping to a low, captivating cadence. "An official position as our lead structural restoration specialist.
Your own state-of-the-art archive studio, a salary that will ensure your mother never has to look at a medical bill for the rest of her life, and complete creative freedom over the pieces you choose to work on. It's a mouth-watering deal, Madeline. One you'd be entirely foolish to turn down."
I stared at the folder, my mind racing. It was everything I had ever dreamed of professionally, wrapped in a gilded cage offered by the most dangerous man I knew. Before I could even process the words, the heavy glass doors of the terrace clicked open, shattering the quiet.
Lucia stepped out into the moonlight, her eyes locking onto me with a cold, predatory intensity.
- Writer
