Chapter 10 - The Gala Invitation
Three days passed inside the harbor penthouse—three days that felt to Clara like stepping out of a freezing winter storm into a warm, sunlit sanctuary. Her mother, Helen, had been safely installed in a luxury two-bedroom apartment two floors below Gabriel’s, complete with twenty-four-hour security and a prepaid commercial lease for her bakery that left her crying tears of joy for two days straight.
On Thursday afternoon, Clara sat on the rug in the formal library, surrounding herself with musical charts and therapy schedules for her pediatric ward at the hospital. She was wearing a comfortable oversized sweater and leggings, her bruised collarbone finally beginning to fade from angry purple to a dull, healing yellow under Dr. Vance’s daily care.
Gabriel walked into the library carrying a sleek, silver tablet and a large, flat box wrapped in matte black paper with a silk ribbon.
“You look busy,” Gabriel said, pausing near the edge of the Persian rug, leaning one shoulder casually against the bookshelf. He was wearing his usual dark, tailored attire, but around Clara, his posture was entirely devoid of the intimidating, lethal edge he presented to the outside world.
“I’m just organizing my case files for next week,” Clara smiled, looking up at him with eyes that were growing brighter and clearer every single day. “The hospital administrator called this morning. Apparently, an anonymous benefactor just made a two-hundred-thousand-dollar donation specifically earmarked to buy new musical instruments and soundproofing for the pediatric therapy wing. I can’t imagine who would do something so generous.”
Gabriel’s lip twitched into a faint, self-satisfied smirk as he walked over and set the black box onto the mahogany coffee table. “Boston is full of anonymous philanthropists, Clara. People who appreciate a good melody.”
He tapped the screen of his silver tablet, pulling up a digital invitation embossed with a gold crest.
“Tomorrow night is the Sterling Foundation Annual Charity Gala at the Fairmont Copley Plaza,” Gabriel said, his tone turning slightly more serious as he looked down at her. “It’s the largest high-society gathering of the autumn season. Every corporate executive, politician, and legal partner in New England will be in that ballroom.”
Clara’s smile faded instantly. Her stomach dropped into her shoes as old, terrifying memories flooded her nervous system. “The Sterling Gala. Marcus told me... at the restaurant... he said I had to wear the emerald dress and keep my mouth shut while he networked.”
“Marcus Thorne is going to be there tomorrow night,” Gabriel said quietly, kneeling on the rug opposite her so they were eye to eye. “He’s a desperate, ruined man who has been stripped of his firm and his clients. He’s attending the gala alone, using his old social connections in a pathetic attempt to save face and beg for a job from the regional developers.”
Clara instinctively wrapped her arms around her ribs, her breath shortening. “If he’s going to be there, I can’t go. I can’t look at him, Gabriel. If I see him in that ballroom, I’ll freeze.”
“No, you won't,” Gabriel said gently, reaching out to take both of her trembling hands into his warm, scarred palms. “Because tomorrow night, you aren't going as Marcus Thorne’s silent trophy. You are going as my personal guest of honor. You are going to walk into that ballroom on my arm, wearing whatever the hell you want, talking to whomever you please, and you are going to look that coward dead in the eye so he understands, once and for all, that he no longer has a single shred of power over you.”
May you like
He pulled the silk ribbon off the matte black box on the table, pushing the lid open toward her.
Inside, resting on a bed of white tissue paper, wasn't the restrictive, high-collared emerald silk gown Marcus had forced upon her. It was a breathtaking, custom-tailored gown of deep, luminous sapphire-blue velvet—an elegant, off-the-shoulder masterpiece designed to frame her collarbone proudly, declaring to the entire world that she had nothing left to hide.
