Chapter 9 - The Princess of Taylor Street
When Clare stepped out of the fitting room at the Drake Hotel on Saturday evening, Roman felt his breath leave his lungs entirely.
The dress was a custom creation in deep midnight blue velvet. It had a sweeping off-the-shoulder neckline that highlighted her collarbones, a structured corset bodice that celebrated every rich curve of her waist, and a flowing skirt that pooled gracefully around her feet. Her dark hair was styled in soft, elegant waves, and around her neck rested a single, magnificent sapphire suspended from a platinum chain—a Duca family heirloom.
“If you stare at me like that any longer, we’re going to be late,” Clare murmured, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink.
Roman walked over to her, completely ignoring the two stylists waiting by the door. He reached out, his big hand resting gently on her waist, pulling her close.
“Let us be late,” Roman growled softly, leaning down to press his lips against the warm skin of her shoulder.
Clare shivered, her hands resting against his crisp tuxedo lapels. “Roman...”
“You take my breath away, Clare Bennett,” he whispered against her skin, his hands gripping her waist with possessive warmth. “Every single day.”
When they entered the grand ballroom of the Drake Hotel, the reaction was instant.
Conversations hushed. Whispers rippled across the room. Roman Duca—the silent, feared chief of the Duca empire—had arrived not with a young starlet or an heiress from a political family, but with a stunning, voluptuous woman who moved with the absolute confidence of a queen.
At the center of the room stood Victor Moretti, surrounded by city officials. When Moretti saw Roman step into the room with Clare on his arm, his smirk completely vanished.
Roman didn't raise his voice. He didn't make a scene. He simply walked Clare through the room, introducing her to the mayor, the city treasurer, and the chief of police as 'his partner, Clare'.
When Moretti finally bumped into them near the champagne fountain, Roman’s posture turned to steel.
“Moretti,” Roman said casually, taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and handing it to Clare. “I believe you met Clare at her bakery a few weeks ago.”
Moretti swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the four heavy-set men standing casually near the doors. “Ms. Bennett. A pleasure to see you again.”
“Is it?” Clare asked, taking a delicate sip of champagne, her eyes cool and amused. “I didn't think you enjoyed bakery visits. You broke my aunt’s cake stand, remember?”
The mayor, standing nearby, raised an eyebrow. “Broke a cake stand? Victor, what’s she talking about?”
Moretti’s face flushed red with humiliation. “It was... a misunderstanding.”
“A twelve-thousand-dollar misunderstanding,” Roman added smoothly, his voice containing a razor-sharp edge. “Which Victor was just about to compensate the Hale & Rye community fund for. Wasn't that right, Victor?”
Moretti hesitated for a fraction of a second, but Roman’s dark eyes held a promise of absolute destruction.
“Yes,” Moretti squeezed out through gritted teeth. “I’ll send a check to the foundation tomorrow.”
“Make it twenty,” Clare added sweetly, raising her glass to him. “Inflation, you know.”
May you like
As Moretti slunk away, Roman looked down at Clare, his chest vibrating with quiet, dark laughter. “You are ruthless.”
“I’m a businesswoman, Duca,” Clare said, sliding her arm through his. “Now take me to the dessert table. I want to criticize their pastries.”
