Chapter 4 - The Confrontation
The silence in the grand ballroom was absolute. Eight hundred wealthy guests stood motionless, holding their breath, every camera phone in the room secretly angled toward the two women standing at the base of the staircase.
Vanessa’s face was red, her breathing rapid and shallow. She looked like a woman who had walked into her own living room and found a stranger wearing her wedding ring.
"Where did you get that dress?" Vanessa demanded, her voice rising to a shrill edge that stripped away every layer of her polished Gold Coast demeanor. "Did you steal that from my dressing room?"
A quiet gasp rippled through the surrounding crowd.
Naomi didn't flinch. She looked down at the midnight-blue silk of her skirt, then looked back up into Vanessa’s hysterical face.
"You told me to wear whatever I had in my closet, Mrs. Moretti," Naomi said calmly.
A few muffled snickers broke out from the back of the room—wealthy donors who despised Vanessa’s arrogant nature enjoying her sudden collapse.
"This isn't a joke!" Vanessa snapped, taking another aggressive step forward. "That dress is the Celeste commission by Atelier DuVall! It was custom created for me! It is a two-million-dollar exclusive design! You are a domestic house maid who sweeps my floors! Where did you get a high-couture gown?"
Dominic Moretti pushed his way through the crowd, stepping between the two women. His broad frame blocked the view of several photographers.
"Vanessa, quiet," Dominic commanded in a low, dangerous growl. "You are making a scene."
"I am making a scene?!" Vanessa shrieked, turning on her husband. "Dominic, look at her! She’s wearing my dress! She copied my gown to embarrass me at our own charity event!"
Dominic turned his sharp, dark eyes back onto Naomi. He didn't look angry; he looked intensely analytical, his gaze assessing her posture, the ancient sapphire earrings dangling from her ears, and the complete lack of fear in her expression.
"Miss Carter," Dominic said, his voice deep and deliberate. "My wife paid two million dollars to Jean-Luc DuVall for an exclusive creation. How do you come to be wearing an identical garment?"
Naomi looked Dominic straight in the eyes. "It isn't an identical garment, Mr. Moretti. It is the original."
Vanessa let out a harsh, hysterical laugh. "The original? You lying, thieving bitch! You work for fifty dollars an hour organizing my shoe collection!"
"Vanessa!" Dominic snapped, his voice ringing out like a thunderclap that shocked his wife into sudden silence.
Naomi reached into a small, velvet-lined clutch bag she held in her left hand. She pulled out a small piece of folded parchment—heavy, aged paper stamped with a red wax seal featuring the anchor and wild rose coat of arms.
She held it out to Dominic.
"This is the original design registry from Atelier DuVall, dated October 14th, 1968," Naomi explained, her tone smooth and quiet. "The Celeste cut was designed for my grandmother, Lady Helena Du Pont-Carter. Under the terms of the trust contract, the design rights belong exclusively to her living heirs."
Dominic took the paper. His eyes scanned the precise French legal calligraphy, the historical dates, and the official stamp of the DuVall house.
"When your wife submitted a two-million-dollar Zurich transfer to order the dress," Naomi continued, turning her eyes back to Vanessa, "Jean-Luc DuVall was legally obligated to inform the estate trustee. He fulfilled her order... but he crafted the primary dress for the rightful owner of the pattern."
Vanessa’s face went from bright red to deathly pale. "You're... you're lying. You're just a maid!"
"I took a job in your home six months ago, Mrs. Moretti," Naomi said softly, taking a step closer until she was inches from Vanessa. "Not because I needed your fifty dollars an hour. But because I needed to see what kind of people were living off my grandfather's stolen legacy."
A collective murmur rushed through the room.
"Grandfather?" Denise Kline whispered from the sidelines. "What is she talking about?"
Dominic held the paper tight in his fist, his knuckles turning white. He looked up from the document, his sharp eyes searching Naomi’s face with a sudden, horrifying realization.
May you like
"Your grandfather," Dominic whispered, his raspy voice barely audible over the hum of the crowd. "Arthur Carter."
Naomi nodded once. "Arthur Carter. The man who owned the land beneath the Moretti Hotel, the Moretti Casino, and every residential tower on Astor Street before he mysteriously vanished in 1974."
