Chapter 7 - The Dress and the Dagger
At 9:30 AM, the bridal suite at the Plaza Hotel was suffocating with the scent of white gardenias and expensive champagne.
Chloe was pacing across the Persian rug, clutching a garment steamer like a weapon. When the heavy suite door opened and I walked in flanked by two of Christian’s plainclothes security agents, Chloe dropped the steamer and threw her arms around me.
“Oh thank God!” Chloe sobbed into my shoulder. “Julian’s mother has been calling every ten minutes! The Rossi publicist is downstairs trying to manage the press leak about the lounge! Elena, where were you? What happened?”
“I’m fine, Chloe,” I said, gently pulling back. “Where is the dress?”
Chloe gestured toward the velvet-lined alcove where the gown hung. It was breathtaking—layers of French lace, silk tulle, and hand-embroidered pearls that had taken six months to construct. A symbol of pure submission disguised as bridal elegance.
“Elena, you’re not actually going through with this, are you?” Chloe asked, her voice trembling. “Tell me you’re not letting that bastard drag you to the altar after what he did last night!”
“I’m going to the cathedral, Chloe,” I replied, unbuttoning Christian’s cashmere sweater and folding it neatly onto the vanity chair. “But not to be a bride.”
Before Chloe could ask another question, the suite door swung open without a knock.
Camila Thorne walked in.
She was already dressed in her pale pink bridesmaid gown, her makeup flawless, but the nervous twitch in her left eyelid betrayed her. She held a crystal flute of mimosa, trying desperately to project the image of the triumphant victor.
“Elena,” Camila said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “You’re actually here. Julian’s father was worried you’d run back to Queens like a scared child.”
Chloe stepped forward, her fists clenched. “Get the hell out of here, Camila, before I tear that designer silk off your back.”
“It’s fine, Chloe,” I said calmly, holding up a hand. “Let her speak.”
Camila took a sip of her champagne, leaning against the marble mantle. “I came to give you some friendly advice, Elena. Julian is waiting at the church. His father has made it very clear: you put on that dress, you walk down that aisle, you smile for the *New York Times*, and you sign the registry. If you make a scene, Marco Rossi will release the security footage of you leaving the lounge with Christian Moretti. They will brand you an adulteress, strip your lab credentials, and destroy your father’s pension before the ink on the morning papers is dry.”
I stood motionless, watching her gloat.
“Julian never loved you, Elena,” Camila purred, stepping closer, her eyes gleaming with venomous satisfaction. “You were an investment. A clever little science project with good bone structure. Once the merger closes today, Julian is putting you in a penthouse in Westchester and bringing me to the city. That was always the plan.”
“Did Julian tell you that?” I asked softly.
“Julian tells me everything,” Camila laughed. “He’s mine. He was always mine.”
“Then you’ll be thrilled to know,” I said, reaching into my clutch purse and pulling out a sleek digital recorder that had been live-streaming to Christian’s legal team since she stepped through the door, “that you just confessed to corporate conspiracy, extortion, and interstate fraud on an encrypted federal server.”
Camila’s smile vanished. The glass slipped from her hand, shattering on the hardwood floor, spilling orange juice and champagne across the rug.
“What... what did you do?”
From the hallway outside, two federal agents in dark suits appeared, accompanied by Christian’s attorney, Harrison.
“Camila Thorne,” Harrison stated calmly, presenting a red-stamped warrant. “You are being subpoenaed under federal grand jury proceedings regarding the illegal offshore licensing of Department of Defense bio-patents. Please step into the corridor.”
Camila looked at me, her chest heaving, terror finally cracking her porcelain facade. “Elena... Julian’s father will destroy you for this!”
“Julian’s father doesn't own New York anymore, Camila,” I whispered. “Now get out of my room.”
The agents escorted the weeping bridesmaid into the hall, closing the double doors behind them.
Chloe stood frozen, staring at me with her mouth open. “Holy... Elena. What have you done?”
May you like
I walked over to the velvet alcove and unzipped the garment bag containing the twelve-thousand-dollar wedding gown.
“Chloe,” I said, my voice steady, my pulse cold and even. “Help me get into this dress. I have an appointment at noon.”
