Chapter 5 - The Gala of Glass and KnivesTwo weeks later, the annual Metropolitan Charity Gala arrived—the ultimate social battleground for Manhattan’s elite, and my official debut as Mrs. Theodore Castellan.
The ballroom of the Metropolitan Museum of Art was blindingly bright, filled with flashing cameras, glittering chandeliers, and hundreds of society figures eager to dissect every move the infamous syndicate boss and his mysterious baker-turned-wife would make.
I wore a floor-length emerald-green silk gown from the penthouse closet, my hair swept up into an intricate chignon, with the massive diamond-and-ruby engagement ring blazing on my left hand.
Throughout the cocktail hour, Theodore stayed glued to my side like a protective shadow. He guided me through circles of terrifying corporate executives and dangerous syndicate lieutenants with a firm, possessive hand pressed against the small of my back. Every time someone tried to bait me with condescending remarks about my humble background, Theodore shut them down with a single, freezing glance that made them apologize and scurry away.
Around 10:00 p.m., while Theodore was momentarily cornered by a city councilman near the champagne tower, a shadow fell over me.
“Well, well. Look who learned how to dress herself.”
I turned. Camila Rossi stood before me, draped in liquid silver designer sequins, a glass of champagne in her hand and a venomous smile plastered across her face. Two of her wealthy socialite friends flanked her like attack dogs.
“Good evening, Camila,” I said smoothly, mirroring the icy composure my mother had taught me.
“I have to hand it to you, little baker,” Camila sneered, stepping closer so our skirts brushed. “You played a very smart long game. Seduce the most powerful man in the city with a cute little waltz trick, trap him with a sob story about a bankrupt bakery, and suddenly you're living on Central Park West.”
“If you recall, Camila,” I replied, tilting my head with a sweet smile, “Mr. Castellan made the challenge in front of three hundred people. I simply accepted it.”
Camila’s eyes narrowed into slits of pure hatred. She raised her champagne glass slightly, as if to toast, but her hand drifted.
“You don't belong here,” she hissed softly, leaning in. “You'll never be one of us. You smell like yeast and cheap flour beneath that perfume, and the moment Theodore gets bored of playing Pygmalion, he’s going to throw you back into the gutter where he found you.”
Before I could deliver the sharp retort forming on my tongue, a heavy, gloved hand descended upon Camila’s shoulder.
The temperature in the immediate vicinity dropped twenty degrees.
“Is there a problem here, Camila?”
Theodore’s voice was dangerously low, devoid of any warmth. He had appeared beside me silently, his gray eyes locked onto Camila with a look that could freeze molten lava.
Camila instantly swallowed her venom, forcing a tight, trembling smile as she looked up at him. “Not at all, Theo! Just welcoming your lovely wife to society.”
“My wife’s name is Mrs. Castellan,” Theodore corrected him, his tone biting like a whip. “And if I ever catch you or your associates speaking to her with anything less than absolute deference again, your family’s shipping contracts at the Port of Newark will be terminated by midnight. Do I make myself clear?”
Camila’s face drained of all color. She stammered a frantic agreement, grabbed her friends by the arm, and practically fled into the crowd.
Theodore turned to me, his hand immediately returning to the small of my back, his thumb tracing soothing circles against my spine.
“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice softening just enough for me to hear.
I looked up at him, realizing in that exact moment that the ruthless mob boss standing beside me had just threatened an entire shipping empire simply because a spoiled socialite had insulted my dignity.
“I'm fine,” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. “In fact... I think I just realized I enjoy high society.”
May you like
A slow, genuine smile—rare and breathtaking—touched Theodore’s lips.
“Good,” he murmured, pulling me closer against his side as the orchestra began to play a slow, sweeping waltz across the museum floor. “Because our night is just getting started.”
