Chapter 8 - Echoes of the Past
Two weeks later, the crisp autumn air of Boston brought a sharp chill that made the city bustle with people wrapped in heavy wool coats and scarves.
I stood in front of the mirror in my suite at the Romano estate, wearing a tailored emerald-green silk dress that hugged my frame, its fabric catching the soft amber light of the vanity. My hair was styled in loose waves, falling over my shoulders.
Tonight was the annual Boston Symphony Orchestra charity gala at the Aster Hotel—the exact same venue where Jessica Trent had dropped her martini glass and watched me kneel on the marble floor.
When Victor walked into the room, dressed in a bespoke charcoal tuxedo with a black silk tie, he stopped dead in his tracks. His gray eyes swept over me, a look of undisguised awe crossing his face.
“Dora,” he breathed, stepping closer. “You look... breathtaking.”
“Are you sure?” I teased, turning slightly in front of the mirror. “No cheap polyester uniform? No gin stains?”
Victor stepped behind me, resting his hands gently on my shoulders, his gaze meeting mine in the glass. “You were breathtaking then, too, Dora. I just hated that the people in that room were too blind to see it.”
“Ready to face the ballroom?” I asked, turning to face him.
“With you? Always.”
The black town car slid smoothly up to the grand entrance of the Aster Hotel just as the evening rush began. Flashbulbs popped from paparazzi stationed outside, capturing the arrival of city councilmen, billionaires, and socialites.
When the driver opened our door, Victor stepped out first, offering his hand.
I took it, stepping out onto the red carpet with my head held high, my posture straight, and not an ounce of fear in my veins.
As we walked through the grand glass doors into the ballroom, the effect was instantaneous.
The glittering crowd parted like the Red Sea. Conversations died mid-sentence. Heads turned in unison. Whispers swept through the room like wildfire—Romano... who is she?... the girl from two weeks ago...
Across the room, standing near the ice sculpture with a glass of champagne, was Jessica Trent.
She froze. Her glass slipped an inch in her manicured hand, her face turning pale as porcelain as she recognized the waitress she had humiliated just weeks before—now draped in emerald silk, walking arm-in-arm with the most dangerous man in New England.
I didn't look down. I didn't scurry away. I looked her dead in the eye.
Jessica swallowed hard, lowered her gaze, and practically melted into the crowd, turning her back to avoid my line of sight.
May you like
Victor gave my arm a gentle squeeze, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Satisfied?”
“Satisfied,” I whispered, smiling up at him. “Let’s get a drink.”
