Chapter 3 - The Private Chat
Inside the dressing suite, Vanessa folded her arms across her chest, a triumphant, narrow smile playing at the corners of her painted lips.
"I'm glad you're being realistic," Vanessa said smoothly. "It saves everyone the embarrassment of seeing you squeezed into that midnight-blue silk at the Foundation gala next week. If you simply claim you have a migraine and stay at the estate, Adrien can attend alone, make his speech, and handle the press without..." She gestured vaguely toward Emily’s waist. "...complications."
Emily lowered her head. She reached out with a trembling hand toward the dress rack where the midnight-blue dress hung—the one Adrien’s staff had delivered earlier that morning. Her fingers lightly brushed the cool, heavy silk of the sleeve.
"Is there really a group chat?" Emily asked, her voice raspy.
Vanessa chuckled, a light, musical sound that set Adrien’s teeth on edge. "Of course there is. The wives of the board members, the daughters of the banking executives... we have a private channel. Every time Adrien orders another gown from Paris, someone leaks the invoice. They post photos of the dress from the runway, and then..."
Vanessa didn't need to finish the sentence.
"Who leaks the invoices?" Emily asked, turning around slowly to face her.
"That doesn't matter," Vanessa replied smoothly, checking her diamond-encrusted watch. "What matters is that you understand your position. You were a sweet little distraction for him after his father died, Emily. A quiet librarian who didn't ask questions about his night operations. But he is the head of the Moretti family now. He needs a queen, not a project."
Vanessa picked up her leather handbag from the velvet ottoman, smoothing her sleek silk skirt.
"I'll inform the Foundation committee that you won't be attending the winter gala due to seasonal illness," Vanessa said, heading toward the suite door. "It really is for the best. Goodnight, Emily."
Vanessa pulled open the double doors of the suite—and froze.
Adrien was standing less than two feet away in the dimly lit hallway.
His dark overcoat made him look impossibly wide, his towering six-foot-four frame completely blocking the exit. His face was entirely devoid of emotion, his dark eyes turned to black glass under the warm hallway lights.
Vanessa gasped, her hand flying to her chest. "Adrien! My God... you frightened me. I didn't hear you come up."
Adrien didn't look at her. His gaze was locked over her shoulder, fixed entirely on his wife, who was standing beside the gilded mirror, looking at him with wide, terrified eyes.
"Adrien..." Vanessa stammered, recovering her composure and forcing a pleasant smile. "I was just visiting Emily to go over the final guest lists for the gala. We were just discussing—"
"Marcus," Adrien said. His voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a terrifying, heavy density that made the air in the corridor feel thick.
From the shadows near the elevator bank, Marcus stepped forward immediately. "Yes, Boss?"
"Take Miss Whitmore’s security badge," Adrien said quietly, his eyes still fixed on Emily. "Revoke her access to all Moretti properties, effective immediately."
Vanessa’s smile vanished, replaced by a flash of pure indignation. "Adrien! What are you talking about? I have managed the Foundation's public relations for five years!"
"You no longer work for the Foundation," Adrien said smoothly. "You no longer work in this city."
"You can't fire me!" Vanessa gasped, her voice shrill. "My father sits on the board of the commercial trust! My family—"
Adrien turned his head slowly, looking down at Vanessa with a gaze so cold, so monstrously detached, that the words died in her throat.
"Your father’s bank owes thirty-two million dollars to my holding company, Vanessa," Adrien said softly, bending down slightly so his mouth was level with her ear. "If I see your face in the same room as my wife ever again, I will call those notes in before the stock market opens tomorrow morning. Your father will be bankrupt by noon, and you will be selling your jewelry to pay for your apartment."
Vanessa turned pale as ash. She opened her mouth to argue, but the absolute, merciless truth in Adrien’s eyes shut her down completely.
"Marcus," Adrien said softly. "Escort her off the premises. If she speaks another word in this building, toss her out into the rain."
"Right away, Boss," Marcus said, placing a heavy hand on Vanessa’s arm and steering her firmly toward the private elevator.
May you like
Vanessa didn't say a word. She stumbled backward, her designer heels clicking frantically against the floor as she was led away into the dark.
Adrien stood alone in the doorway for a moment, listening to the chime of the elevator doors closing. Then, holding the black box under his arm, he stepped inside his wife's suite and closed the double doors behind him.
