Chapter 5 - The Gala of DeceptionsTwo weeks passed like slow-moving poison.
Adrian didn't call. He didn't show up at my apartment. He didn't send flowers, lawyers, or security guards. The silence was deafening, a vacuum that left me alternating between bitter relief and a crushing, hollow ache that no amount of chamomile tea could cure.
My body was changing rapidly now. At eighteen weeks, the subtle curve beneath my clothes was undeniable. I had to retire my favorite tailored trousers in favor of soft, flowing knit dresses that accommodated the growing life inside me.
And then came the invitation.
It arrived in a thick, matte black envelope delivered by an anonymous courier: The Annual Winter Gala for the Metropolitan Museum of Architecture and Design, held at the Plaza Hotel in Manhattan. Enclosed was a VIP guest pass bearing my maiden name—Claire Bennett—along with a handwritten note scrawled in familiar, razor-sharp cursive:
“You can’t hide forever, Claire. Be there. There are things you need to see with your own eyes.”
I debated throwing it in the trash. I debated packing my bags and fleeing to upstate New York for the weekend. But curiosity—and a fierce, burning pride—won out. If Adrian Moretti thought he could summon me like a subordinate to a public gala, I would show him that I wasn't the intimidated, insecure wife he had divorced sixty-three days ago.
I spent hours preparing. I chose a stunning emerald-green silk gown that draped gracefully over my silhouette, hugging the gentle curve of my stomach without screaming maternity wear. I pinned my hair up in an intricate chignon, applied a bold red lip, and stepped into towering heels that made me feel like an Amazon ready for battle.
When I stepped out of the private car in front of the Plaza Hotel, blinding flashbulbs popped instantly. Paparazzi lined the red carpet, shouting names and capturing every angle of the elite guests arriving in furs and diamonds.
I kept my chin high, my posture immaculate, and walked past the wall of cameras as if I owned the entire block.
Inside, the grand ballroom was a breathtaking sea of crystal chandeliers, white roses, and tuxedo-clad billionaires. As I entered, a hush seemed to ripple through the nearest cluster of society elites. Whispers broke out immediately.
“Isn’t that Claire Bennett? I thought she and Adrian divorced…”
“Where is Moretti? I heard she was completely shut out of the settlement…”
“Look at her dress... is she hiding something?”
I ignored them, gliding toward the bar to grab a glass of sparkling club soda with a twist of lime.
“You look breathtaking, Claire.”
I froze, turning my head slightly to find Marco Bellini standing beside me, holding a scotch on the rocks. His expression was respectful, but his eyes held an urgent warning.
“Marco,” I said smoothly, forcing a cool smile. “Are you playing bodyguard tonight, or did Adrian send you to monitor my alcohol intake?”
“Mr. Moretti didn't send me to monitor you, Ms. Bennett,” Marco replied quietly. “He sent me to escort you to the private terrace. There’s someone you need to talk to.”
“I’m not interested in talking to Adrian, and I certainly—”
“It’s not Mr. Moretti you need to see,” Marco interrupted, his voice dropping to a low, intense register. “It’s Vanessa Russo. She asked to speak with you. Alone.”
My breath hitched. Vanessa? What possible business did Adrian’s ex-fiancée have with me at a high-society gala?
“Lead the way,” I said, my voice hardening as I set my glass down on the bar.
Marco guided me through the swirling crowd, past the orchestra balcony, and out through a set of heavy glass doors leading onto a secluded, snow-dusted stone terrace overlooking Central Park.
The winter air bit sharply against my bare shoulders, but the adrenaline rushing through my veins kept the cold at bay.
Standing by the stone balustrade, wrapped in a magnificent white fur coat, was Vanessa. She turned as the glass door clicked shut behind us, her striking green eyes locking onto mine with an expression that was entirely devoid of the polite, sickly-sweet warmth she had worn in the hospital.
“You came,” Vanessa said, her voice carrying a sharp, triumphant edge.
“Cut the preamble, Vanessa,” I snapped, stepping closer, crossing my arms over my emerald gown. “Why am I out here freezing on a terrace? What game are you playing?”
Vanessa let out a low, cold laugh. A cloud of white mist puffed from her lips into the freezing air.
“Game? Oh, Claire. You really are entirely out of your depth, aren't you? You think you’re the tragic heroine of some romance novel, walking away from a billionaire with his secret baby, expecting him to chase you to the ends of the earth.”
“Watch your tone,” I warned, my eyes narrowing.
“No, you watch,” Vanessa hissed, stepping forward, dropping all pretense of civility. She reached into her fur pocket, pulled out a thick envelope, and tossed it onto a small wrought-iron table between us.
I looked down at the envelope. Peeking out from the flap was a medical billing statement and a legal trust document bearing the letterhead of a Swiss fertility clinic.
“What is this?” I asked, a cold knot forming in my stomach.
“That,” Vanessa smiled venomously, “is proof that Adrian hasn't just been playing caretaker to a dying friend. That is proof that Adrian Moretti has been funding my fertility treatments for the past two years—using frozen embryos we created together before he ever even met you.”
The world stopped spinning.
The cold winter air turned to ice in my lungs. My vision blurred at the edges as Vanessa’s words echoed through my brain like a relentless drumbeat.
Frozen embryos. Created together. Funded by Adrian.
“You’re lying,” I whispered, my voice shaking uncontrollably.
“Am I?” Vanessa smiled, stepping closer, her eyes flashing with malicious triumph. “Ask him why he married you, Claire. Ask him why a man who never wanted a family suddenly agreed to tie the knot with a quiet, ordinary designer from his firm. He didn't want a wife. He wanted a surrogate who looked enough like me to carry a legacy when my health failed. And the moment I was well enough to try again... he gave you your walking papers.”
Before I could process the poison dripping from her lips, the glass balcony door slammed open behind us with a force that made the iron frame rattle.
“Vanessa,” Adrian’s voice boomed across the terrace, dark, lethal, and trembling with a rage I had never heard from him before.
May you like
He stepped out into the freezing night, his tuxedo jacket flying open, his eyes fixed entirely on Vanessa with murder in his gaze.
And as I turned to look at him, my heart shattered into a thousand jagged, irreparable pieces.
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