Chapter 5 - The Morning After
By 8:00 a.m. the following morning, the front pages of New York’s top three newspapers were dominated by a single photograph.
It wasn't a picture of Victoria Vale’s tear-stained face, nor was it a shot of Richard Vale storming out of the Belmont Grand Hotel.
It was a photograph captured by a private photographer near the entrance of the ballroom: Dominic Morelli, draped in power, gently wrapping his dark tuxedo jacket around the shoulders of a woman in a deep red gown, his face close to hers, his dark eyes fierce with protection.
THE SEVENTY MILLION DOLLAR DEFENSE, the headline read.
MORELLI TEARS UP VALE CONTRACT OVER NURSE’S HUMILIATION.
Elena sat at the massive oak breakfast table in the East Wing of the estate, staring at the newspaper beside a plate of untouched eggs and fresh berries. She was dressed in a comfortable cream cashmere sweater and black leggings that Mrs. Gable had provided for her—clothes that fit her full curves perfectly without pinching or binding.
The heavy double doors of the dining room opened, and Dominic walked in.
He was wearing a dark grey suit, tailored to perfection, holding a tablet in one hand and a black coffee in the other.
"You haven't eaten," he noted, pulling out the chair directly across from her.
"I'm on the cover of the New York Post, Dominic," Elena said, pointing a trembling finger at the paper. "My mother called me three times from Ohio before seven in the morning. She thinks I'm involved with the mafia!"
Dominic took a sip of his coffee, completely unfazed. "Are you?"
"Am I what?!"
"Involved with the mafia?" he asked, a faint, rare smirk touching the corner of his lips.
"Dominic, this isn't funny!" Elena cried out, leaning back in her chair. "Victoria’s friends are posting horrible things online! They're leaking old photos from my high school yearbook, calling me a gold-digger, saying I set this whole thing up to trap you!"
Dominic’s smirk instantly disappeared. The warm air in the dining room suddenly vanished, replaced by an icy, sharp tension.
"Show me," he commanded softly.
Elena hesitated, then slid her phone across the polished table.
Dominic picked it up, scrolling through the viral social media threads, his eyes darkening with every second that passed. The comments were brutal—cruel jokes about her body weight, malicious lies about her past, accusations that she had used Margaret Vale’s illness to infiltrate the upper echelons of society.
Dominic handed the phone back to her, then tapped his tablet twice.
"Marcus," he spoke into his earbud. "Activate the media protocols. Trace every IP address behind the top ten hate accounts targetting Elena Brooks. If any of them are tied to the Vale PR firm, freeze their asset transfers in the Jersey docks immediately."
He paused, his eyes fixed on Elena’s distressed face.
"And Marcus?"
"Yes, Mr. Morelli?" the lawyer’s voice echoed faintly from the earbud.
"Issue a formal invitation to the press. I am hosting a private gala at the Brooklyn Heights estate tomorrow evening. Every major family in the five boroughs will attend."
May you like
Dominic ended the call, set his tablet down, and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.
"You wanted to wear that red dress because you wanted to feel beautiful, Elena," Dominic said, his voice deep and absolute. "Tomorrow night, you are going to wear whatever you choose. And every person who laughed at you at the Belmont will stand in my ballroom and apologize to your face."
