Chapter 5 - The Met Gala
The steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art were ablaze with flashing camera lights, red carpets, and screaming reporters.
It was the premier social event of the Manhattan calendar—a place where fortunes were displayed, reputations were made, and scandals were dissected under the harsh glare of national media.
Grant Wescott stood near the top of the steps, wearing a sharp black tuxedo, trying to project an air of calm confidence. Beside him, Camille Drake wore a gold sequined dress that clung to her thin frame, her smile frozen as several society columnists whispered behind their hands just a few feet away.
The humiliation of the failed wedding had leaked to the press forty-eight hours ago. Headlines like Wescott Abandoned at the Altar and Fletcher Heir Walks Out had been trending across social platforms, damaging Wescott Capital's public standing.
Grant had brought Camille tonight to prove that he was unfazed—that he had simply moved on to his preferred choice.
"Smile, Grant," Camille hissed through her teeth, her hand clutching his arm tightly. "People are taking photos."
"Shut up, Camille," Grant muttered under his breath, adjusting his bow tie. "If my father's board sees one more negative article tomorrow, I lose my managing directorship."
Suddenly, the roar of the crowd at the base of the steps doubled in volume.
Photographers began surging forward, their heavy camera lenses pivoting away from the minor celebrities toward a sleek, matte-black Rolls-Royce Phantom pulling up to the red carpet.
The door opened.
Julian Cross stepped out first, looking breathtakingly handsome in a custom double-breasted velvet tuxedo. He turned back toward the door, extending a broad, steady hand.
Nadine Fletcher stepped out into the flashing lights.
A collective gasp went up from the press line.
Nadine wore a custom midnight-blue satin gown designed by one of Paris's premier couturiers. The gown featured a structured corseted bodice that celebrated her full bust, plunging gracefully into a long, sweeping skirt with a thigh-high slit that revealed her legs in silver strappy heels. Her dark hair was styled in Hollywood glamour waves, and around her neck sat a vintage Cartier diamond necklace—a loan from Julian’s private vault.
She looked radiant, powerful, and undeniably regal.
Julian wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close against his side, his hand resting possessively over the curve of her hip.
The photographers went wild.
"Nadine! Over here!" "Miss Fletcher! Look at the camera!" "Julian! Is it true Cross Holdings acquired Fletcher Packaging?"
Nadine smiled—a calm, radiant, effortless smile—as she walked up the red carpet on Julian’s arm. She felt zero fear, zero doubt, and zero shame.
At the top of the steps, Grant and Camille stood frozen as Julian and Nadine approached.
Grant’s face turned an ugly, mottled red. He stared at Nadine—at her bare shoulders, her stunning gown, and the breathtaking confidence radiating from every inch of her body. He had never seen her look like this. When she was with him, she had been quiet, hiding behind loose dresses and soft cardigans.
Now, she looked like a queen standing beside an emperor.
"Nadine," Grant choked out, taking an instinctive step forward.
Nadine paused, turning her hazel eyes toward him. Her expression was completely blank—no anger, no bitterness, just cool, distant indifference.
"Good evening, Mr. Wescott," Nadine said smoothly.
Camille’s eyes darted down to the massive Cartier diamond necklace around Nadine's throat, her face tightening with bitter jealousy. "You certainly recovered quickly, Nadine. I suppose Julian Cross pays well for company."
Julian stepped forward half a pace, his tall, broad frame casting a heavy shadow over Camille and Grant. His storm-gray eyes turned arctic cold.
"Miss Drake," Julian said, his raspy voice cutting through the ambient noise of the carpet like an iron blade. "I suggest you take your gold sequins and walk inside before I instruct my media team to publish the audit report on your father's foundation."
Camille went dead white, her mouth snapping shut instantly.
Julian turned to Grant, looking down at him with quiet, absolute superiority.
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"And Grant," Julian added softly. "Thank you for being late to your own wedding. It was the greatest gift you could have ever given me."
Julian wrapped his arm back around Nadine's waist, guiding her past them through the grand glass doors of the museum, leaving Grant and Camille standing alone on the red carpet under the blinding, merciless flash of a hundred camera lenses.
