Chapter 4 - The Private Dining RoomLe Petit Chateaux was closed to the public on Thursday nights, a luxury afforded only to those who owned the building or owned the people who ran it. When the black town car dropped me off at the wrought-iron side entrance, a silent, unsmiling valet escorted me past the darkened main dining room and straight up a private mahogany staircase to the second-floor suite.
I had spent two hours agonizing over my wardrobe. I had deliberately avoided red, settling instead on a simple, high-necked emerald green silk dress that belonged to me—something quiet, understated, and entirely unremarkable.
The valet opened the heavy double doors and stepped aside.
The private dining room was breathtaking. A single table was set for two in the center of the room, illuminated by the warm, flickering glow of dozens of candles arranged in antique silver candelabras. Through the tall arched windows, the Philadelphia skyline glittered against the dark night sky.
And sitting at the head of the table, nursing a glass of scotch, was Carter Battalia.
He wore a dark charcoal suit, his shirt collar open at the throat, the severe edge of his syndicate persona softened just enough by the candlelight to make him look dangerously approachable.
When the doors clicked shut behind me, Carter looked up. His dark eyes swept over the emerald green dress, and a slow, approving smile touched the corners of his mouth.
“You didn't wear red,” he noted, his voice low and rich in the quiet room.
“You specifically instructed me not to,” I replied, keeping my hands clasped in front of me as I remained standing near the door. “Though I wasn't aware you made a habit of issuing summonses to gallery workers.”
“I don't,” Carter said simply, gesturing toward the empty chair directly across from him. “Sit, Diana. The food will be cold if we spend the first hour exchanging defensive barbs.”
I hesitated, then walked slowly across the Persian rug and took the seat he offered. The white linen napkin rested heavily beside my silver fork.
“Why am I here, Mr. Battalia?” I asked, cutting straight to the point.
“Because,” he said, leaning back in his leather chair and swirling the amber liquid in his glass, “yesterday morning, your sister came to my office unannounced, demanding an apology for your ‘rude behavior’ and offering herself as a replacement for whatever attention I apparently wasted on you.”
My face burned with sudden, mortifying humiliation. “Vanessa did what?”
“She made a fool of herself,” Carter answered bluntly, without a shred of malice. “And in doing so, she confirmed everything I suspected about the dynamic in your household. You live in her shadow because she demands it, and you let her because it’s easier than fighting back.”
“You know nothing about my family,” I snapped, the heat rising in my chest.
“I know that the moment I looked at you across a crowded ballroom, your sister’s entire world fractured because for the first time in her life, someone looked past her,” Carter countered, his voice dropping an octave, carrying an absolute, unyielding truth that made it impossible to argue. “I don't like being managed, Diana. And I certainly don't like being intercepted by women who view relationships as corporate acquisitions.”
“So you invited me here just to prove a point to Vanessa?” I asked, a bitter edge creeping into my tone. “To use me as a prop in your own game?”
Carter set his glass down on the table with a soft clink. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the white tablecloth, closing the physical distance between us until I could feel the intense gravity of his presence once again.
“I didn't invite you here for your sister,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, intimate register that made my breath catch. “I invited you here because out of all the people in that room—out of all the socialites, politicians, and career climbers—you were the only real thing there.”
The words hung in the air between us, heavy and electric.
May you like
Before I could process the terrifying weight of what he was saying, the doors swung open quietly, and a waiter entered carrying a silver tray laden with steaming plates of roasted duck and wild mushrooms.
As the food was served in silence, I looked across the table at the most feared man in Philadelphia, realizing with a sinking sense of inevitability that my quiet, invisible life was officially over.
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