Chapter 2 - The Digital Execution
The screen displayed a high-resolution screenshot of a private messaging app bearing the logo of the Greater Chicago Civic Foundation—an organization where my husband sat as chairman and where I was technically supposed to co-chair the upcoming winter gala.
The chat thread was titled Moretti Gala Watch – VIP Only.
At the top of the visible messages was a photograph taken of me two nights earlier leaving a charity dinner at the Drake Hotel. I had been wearing a forest-green silk dress I had repaired and restyled myself—a vintage piece from the 1950s with a modest neckline and a flowing skirt that didn't conform to current runway proportions.
The text beneath the photo, posted by a user handle matching the wife of a prominent municipal judge, read: Does anyone else feel like Adrien’s charity case is getting heavier? Look at the hemline. She’s literally dragging our standards down the steps.
Another user replied instantly: She doesn't even buy new clothes half the time. Sources at Saks say she returns everything he buys her because nothing fits her frame. It’s embarrassing. Adrien deserves a consort, not a weekend DIY project.
And then, a message from a handle I recognized all too well—V_Whitmore: Give her time, ladies. Some women don't know how to dress for a dinner table unless it’s made of wood they’re chopping themselves.
The room seemed to tilt slightly on its axis.
I looked up from the glowing screen into Vanessa’s triumphant, unblinking eyes. She had engineered this moment down to the second, timing the reveal to coincide with the fittings, the gala prep, and the quiet, creeping self-doubt that every outsider feels when they marry into a dynasty of wolves.
“They laugh at you, Emily,” Vanessa whispered, her voice laced with venomous satisfaction. “Adrien brings you to these rooms because he’s trying to prove a point about his modern sensibilities. But behind closed doors? You’re a joke. You’re an ill-fitting dress he keeps trying to alter, but the fabric is just too cheap to hold the shape.”
The silence in the fitting room was absolute. The stylists had retreated into the far corner, pretending to fold tissue paper with intense, desperate concentration.
I didn't cry. I didn't scream, throw my coffee, or slap the phone out of her hand.
Working for ten years in textile restoration teaches you a very specific kind of patience. You learn that when a priceless, centuries-old tapestry is rotting from the inside out, you don't panic when you find a torn thread. You trace the thread back to its origin. You find the tension point. And then you carefully, methodically pull until the whole rotten structure unravels.
“Is that all?” I asked.
Vanessa blinked, thrown completely off balance by my lack of tears. Her mouth parted slightly. “What?”
“Is that the grand expose?” I asked, stepping back and smoothing down my simple black linen skirt. “You and a bunch of bored women with too much Botox and too little imagination gossiping in a chat room? My goodness, Vanessa. If I had known your social currency was that devalued, I would have sent you a fruit basket.”
Her face flushed a furious, mottled crimson. “You arrogant little—you don't belong in our world! You’re nothing! You’re a charity case sweeping floors in a dusty workshop!”
“Maybe so,” I said, walking over to the garment rack, lifting the midnight-blue velvet gown off its hanger, and folding it neatly into its matte-black presentation box. “And yet, my husband bought this for me. He walked into a store, saw it, thought of me, and spent his own money to bring it home. Did he buy you anything lately, Vanessa? Or are you still relying on family inheritance and recycled holiday cards to keep you relevant?”
Before she could lunge forward or unleash the rest of her fury, the heavy mahogany door of the private suite swung open with a soft, pneumatic click.
Marcus Hale stepped into the room.
Marcus was forty-five, built like a brick wall, wearing a charcoal suit that was tailored to conceal a custom shoulder holster, and carrying an aura of cold, lethal competence that made the stylists instantly press themselves flat against the wallpaper.
He didn't look at Vanessa. He looked strictly at me, his dark eyes softening by a fraction as he inclined his head.
“Mrs. Moretti,” Marcus said, his voice deep and steady. “Mr. Moretti’s car is downstairs. He asked me to escort you up to the penthouse office. He wants to have dinner with you before the evening board meeting.”
I closed the lid of the dress box, picked it up by its satin handles, and walked past Vanessa without glancing at her face again.
“Tell Adrien I’ll be right down, Marcus,” I said smoothly. “And Marcus?”
May you like
“Yes, ma'am?”
“Make sure the security team scrubs the lobby cameras on our way out. It seems the air up here is getting a bit contaminated with pests.”
