Chapter 7 - The Gala of Wolves
Four days passed inside the gilded cage of the penthouse.
Adrian did not sleep in the master suite. True to his word, he occupied the guest wing down the long marble corridor, granting me complete privacy. Yet, his presence permeated every breath of the apartment. Fresh lavender flowers appeared on the nightstand every morning. The refrigerator was stocked with organic foods recommended by my obstetrician. And every evening at seven, a gentle knock sounded on my door, followed by Adrian standing in the doorway, asking if I required anything before he retreated to his study.
He was courting me like a ghost—present, protective, but painfully distant, terrified of crossing a boundary that would push me away.
On Friday afternoon, a heavy garment bag was delivered to my suite by Marco. Attached was a handwritten note in Adrian’s sharp, slashing script:
*Claire,*
*Tonight is the annual St. Jude’s Children's Benefit Gala at the Plaza. The city believes we are divorced. Rossi’s remaining financiers will be in that room, watching for weakness. If you appear at my side, pregnant and claimed, it sends a clear message: the Moretti family is unified, and any strike against you is a strike against the entire conglomerate.*
*You do not have to come. But if you do, I will show Manhattan that you are the only woman who will ever hold my name.*
*Yours,*
*Adrian.*
I stared at the note, my heart pounding against my ribs.
*Claimed.*
It was arrogant. It was infuriating. And yet, there was a raw honesty in it that terrified me. I unzipped the garment bag. Inside lay a floor-length gown of midnight-blue velvet, designed with an empire waist that gently draped over my rounded stomach without hiding it, accented by a discreet diamond choker.
At eight o'clock, I stepped into the foyer.
Adrian was waiting by the private elevator, dressed in a bespoke black tuxedo that accentuated every broad, lethal angle of his body. When he looked up from his phone and saw me, his breath caught audibly in his throat.
His eyes drifted from the diamonds at my throat, down the curve of the midnight velvet, to the unmistakable swell of my belly.
“You are breathtaking,” he said, his voice husky and rough.
“I am doing this for our child’s safety, Adrian,” I said, lifting my chin, trying to ignore the heat radiating from his gaze. “Not for your corporate image.”
“I know,” he whispered, stepping forward and offering his arm. “I don't care about the corporate image, Claire. I care about the world knowing you belong under my protection.”
The Grand Ballroom at the Plaza Hotel was a sea of black silk, diamonds, and champagne flutes. Manhattan’s elite—hedge fund titans, old-money dynasties, and corrupt politicians—milled under the crystal chandeliers.
When the double doors opened and Adrian Moretti walked in with me on his arm, the roar of the room vanished into a stunned, collective hush.
Whispers swept through the crowd like a wildfire.
*“Is that Claire Bennett?”*
*“I thought the divorce was final!”*
*“Look at her dress... is she pregnant?”*
Adrian didn't glance at them. His posture was regal, dangerous, his hand resting securely over mine where it was tucked into the crook of his elbow. He guided me through the parting sea of socialites directly toward the VIP table where the board members of Moretti Capital sat.
Suddenly, a woman stepped into our path.
Vanessa Russo.
She was dressed in pale silver silk, looking fragile, her face pale from her recent hospital stay. But behind her delicate demeanor was a sharpness, an old entitlement that had haunted my marriage for three years.
“Adrian,” Vanessa said, her voice breathy, ignoring me entirely. “You made it. I was hoping we could speak about the foundation’s trust funds.”
Adrian didn't stop. He slowed his pace just enough to look at her, his face an impenetrable mask of ice.
“Miss Russo,” Adrian said, his voice cold enough to frost the champagne glasses nearby. “My head of legal will handle your trust funds. You should be resting at home under federal supervision.”
Vanessa’s eyes finally flickered down to my waist, seeing the distinct curve under the blue velvet. A flash of pure venom crossed her features. “Claire. How unexpected. I didn't think ex-wives were invited to philanthropic functions.”
Before I could open my mouth, Adrian’s arm slid around my waist, pulling me firmly against his side, his large palm resting directly, possessively over our unborn baby.
“Claire is not my ex-wife, Vanessa,” Adrian said, his voice ringing out clearly across the silent circle of spectators. “The paperwork was an administrative error that has been rectified. Claire is my wife, the mother of my heir, and the only person who holds authority over this family besides myself.”
He leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowing into slits that promised ruin. “If you address her with disrespect again, I will withdraw the federal security protecting your residence before midnight. Am I understood?”
Vanessa went white as bone. She took two steps back and melted into the crowd without another word.
Adrian turned to me, his touch softening instantly, his dark eyes searching mine with an intensity that made the rest of the crowded room disappear. “Are you all right?”
I looked at the man who had terrified half of New York, who had just humiliated his past to defend my honor before the world. The wall around my heart, the stubborn anger I had clung to for sixty-three days, shattered completely.
May you like
“Take me home, Adrian,” I whispered.
***
