Chapter 2 - The Red Dress and the Lion’s DenThat evening, Maya’s survival instincts completely dissolved into absolute, loyal accomplice mode. She dragged me across Manhattan until we found a high-end boutique in Soho, where she practically forced me into a daring, floor-length crimson silk evening gown that I had admired through the window a month prior, convinced I lacked the confidence to ever wear it.
When I stepped out of the fitting room, the reflection in the three-way mirror barely looked like me. The deep red fabric hugged my curves flawlessly, a daring high slit showed just a hint of silver strappy heels, and my hair had been swept up into a sleek, elegant knot that left my shoulders bare. The girl who cried on the floor thirty-six hours ago was gone. In her place stood a woman ready for war.
The Grandon Hotel ballroom sparkled under millions of dollars in Austrian crystal chandeliers. It was the premier charity gala of the season—an annual gathering where New York’s old-money dynasties, corporate barons, and philanthropic elites came to flaunt their wealth and carve out their social standing.
When I stepped through the grand double doors, every single conversation near the entrance seemed to stall. Heads turned. Eyes lingered. The red dress wasn't just a garment; it was a declaration of war.
I smoothed my hands down the silk fabric, lifted my chin, and scanned the cavernous room until I found the Rossi family enclave seated near the elevated stage.
There they were.
Liam looked remarkably uncomfortable in a stiff tuxedo that didn't quite suit his posture, nervously checking his watch. And right beside him, draped in a glittering gold designer dress, was Amber, clinging to his arm like a triumphant predator who believed she had won the grand prize. Sitting directly across from them was Valentina Rossi, Liam’s mother—a notoriously frigid woman wearing diamonds around her neck that easily cost more than my entire apartment building.
Then, my eyes found him.
Nico Rossi.
He stood slightly apart from his family circle, holding a glass of scotch, listening impassively as a junior senator babbled away beside him. Even amidst a room filled with powerful men, Nico commanded the space effortlessly. He was in his late fifties, silver threading through his dark hair, possessing sharp, aristocratic features and an aura of cold, absolute authority that kept sycophants at a respectful distance.
I took a deep, steadying breath and began walking toward the stage, my heels clicking rhythmically against the polished marble floor.
Then, out of nowhere, Nico’s gaze shifted across the crowded ballroom.
His eyes locked onto mine.
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For a fraction of a second, something flickered across his impassive expression—a spark of genuine recognition, quickly replaced by intense, razor-sharp curiosity. He remembered me from that awkward family dinner six months ago. He remembered the quiet, polite girl sitting in the corner while his son droned on about golf.
And then, to the absolute astonishment of everyone within a fifty-foot radius, Nico Rossi set his crystal glass down on a passing waiter’s tray, completely ignored the junior senator mid-sentence, and began walking in a straight, unhesitating line right toward me.
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