"They Laughed at the Woman in the Cheap Dress—Until the Most Powerful Man in the Room Walked Over and Called Her His Wife."

If the Plaza ballroom had been a skirmish, the Met Gala was a full-scale nuclear war.

Every billionaire, socialite, tech mogul, and fashion icon in the northern hemisphere was in attendance. The grand marble steps were lined with screaming fans and hundreds of paparazzi capturing every designer gown and tailored tuxedo.

When our Maybach pulled up to the curb, the door swung open, and the flashbulbs illuminated the night sky like a thunderstorm.

Matteo stepped out first, offering his hand. As I placed my hand in his and stepped out onto the red carpet, a collective roar went up from the press pen.

I was wearing a breathtaking, backless midnight-blue velvet gown embroidered with subtle silver constellations—a piece designed exclusively for me by a couture house in Milan, courtesy of Matteo’s relentless insistence that I wear whatever made me feel invincible.

And invincible was precisely how I felt.

As we walked up the grand stone steps toward the entrance, I spotted them.

Mabel Laurent and Jean Dubois.

Jean looked shell-shocked, having lost his executive position, his apartment, and his social standing in the wake of Cipriani Global's aggressive forensic audit. Beside him, Mabel was trapped in a blindingly bright yellow gown that photographers were pointedly ignoring in favor of our arrival.

As Matteo and I approached the grand foyer, Mabel stepped directly into our path, her face twisted into a mask of bitter, desperate venom.

“Well, well,” Mabel sneered, her voice carrying loudly enough for several nearby reporters to hear. “Look who figured out how to buy herself a billionaire. Tell me, Ayla, does he charge by the hour, or is this just a very expensive long-term escort service?”

The surrounding journalists instantly stopped, their cameras whipping around, lenses zooming in like hawks scenting blood in the water.

Before I could even open my mouth to deliver a withering corporate-level takedown, Matteo stepped forward.

His expression didn't just harden; it turned into stone. The terrifying, ice-cold aura that had destroyed Jean Dubois descended over him completely.

“Mabel,” Matteo’s voice cut through the grand foyer like a razor blade. “Your family’s shipping logistics hub in New Jersey currently operates under zoning licenses held by a subsidiary of Cipriani Global.”

Mabel’s smug smile instantly faltered. Her eyes widened. “What… what does that have to do with anything?”

“It means,” Matteo continued, stepping closer until he loomed over her like an executioner, “that as of tomorrow morning, those licenses are being revoked. Every single commercial lease your family owns will be terminated for breach of moral conduct. You are persona non grata in every civilized venue in this city. If you ever speak my wife’s name again, you won't just be uninvited from these galas—you’ll be watching them from a park bench.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Mabel turned the color of ash. She stumbled backward, tripping slightly on the hem of her yellow gown, and fled into the crowd without uttering another word.

Matteo didn't even watch her leave. He turned back to me, the ice in his eyes instantly melting into a deep, burning warmth. He reached out, his hand gently cupping my cheek, his thumb brushing my lower lip.

“Are you alright?” he asked softly, ignoring the dozens of cameras capturing every micro-expression.

I smiled, feeling a surge of pure, unadulterated power and joy that had nothing to do with money or status, but everything to do with the man standing beside me.