Chapter 5 - The Drive to Bridgeport
Gabriel’s personal vehicle was a heavy, slate-gray armored Bentley sedan with blacked-out glass and an engine that sounded like a quiet, rhythmic hum.
He drove himself. Marcus Reed had offered to provide a driver, but Gabriel had dismissed him with a brief gesture of his hand.
I sat in the front passenger seat, surrounded by the smell of hand-stitched leather, cedarwood, and Gabriel’s subtle cologne. The heavy city rain was washing over the windshield as we navigated through the evening traffic on Lake Shore Drive, heading south toward my modest apartment in Bridgeport.
For twenty minutes, neither of us spoke.
It wasn't an uncomfortable silence. For the first time in four months, my chest didn't feel tightly constricted. The throb in my cheek had subsided to a dull ache, and the spare reading glasses sat comfortably on my nose.
I looked out the window at the blurred neon lights of downtown Chicago reflecting off the wet asphalt.
"You didn't have to do that," I said quietly, breaking the silence.
Gabriel kept his eyes on the road, his large hands resting easily on the leather-wrapped steering wheel. "Do what?"
"Fire her in front of everyone. Call the police. Bring the projector down." I turned my head to look at his sharp profile in the dim dashboard light. "You could have just fired her quietly in your office. It would have saved you a lot of public embarrassment."
Gabriel let out a short, low sound that was almost a laugh. "Public embarrassment? Sophie, I run shipping lines that handle eight billion dollars of cargo a year. Do you think I care about what high-society gossips think about a disgraced estate manager?"
"It's not just that," I murmured. "People are going to talk. About why you defended a housekeeper. About why you locked the kitchen door."
Gabriel stopped at a red light on 31st Street. He turned his head slowly, looking directly into my eyes.
"Let them talk," he said softly. "I don't make decisions based on the opinions of people who hide behind silk ties and cocktail parties."
He reached across the center console. For a second, I thought he was going to touch my face, but he simply reached for my hand, wrapping his large, warm fingers around my cold knuckles.
"When I walked into that foyer today, Sophie," Gabriel said, his voice dropping into a low, intense register, "and saw those two guards holding your arms while that woman struck you... I felt a rage I haven't felt in fifteen years."
My heart gave a sudden, hard thud against my ribs. "Why?"
"Because I know what it feels like to be treated like an outsider in a room full of people who think they own the world," Gabriel confessed quietly. "My father was a night watchman at the South Chicago steel mills. When I was twelve years old, the mill owner’s son accused me of stealing a silver pocket watch from the office. They locked me in a supply closet for six hours until my father came to get me."
I stared at him, seeing the dark, dangerous billionaire in a completely different light.
"Did you steal it?" I asked softly.
"No," Gabriel replied, a cold smile touching his lips. "The mill owner's son had dropped it down a storm drain while he was drunk. But my father had to spend two weeks' wages to pay for the 'inconvenience' before they would let him take me home."
He squeezed my hand gently before releasing it as the traffic light turned green.
"I swore that night," Gabriel said, accelerating down the street, "that if I ever built my own house, no innocent person under my roof would ever have to stand alone while a liar tried to break them."
Ten minutes later, the Bentley pulled up in front of my three-story brick apartment building in Bridgeport. The building was old, its paint peeling around the window frames, but it was clean and quiet.
I unbuckled my seatbelt and reached for my canvas bag. "Thank you for the ride, Mr. Moretti. And... thank you for believing me."
Gabriel put the car in park and looked at me. "Take the next three days off, Sophie. Full pay."
"I can work tomorrow—"
"Take three days," he commanded gently, leaving no room for argument. "Rest your face. Let the bruise heal. And on Thursday evening, I am sending a car to pick you up."
I paused, my hand on the door handle. "A car? For what?"
"There is a dinner at the Drake Hotel," Gabriel said, his dark eyes watching my reaction closely. "The annual Chicago Maritime Association gala. I want you to come with me."
I blinked in complete shock. "To the Drake Hotel? Mr. Moretti... I'm a housekeeper. I don't belong at a formal gala."
May you like
Gabriel leaned across the console, his face inches from mine.
"You belong wherever you choose to step, Sophie," he whispered, his breath warm against my cheek. "And on Thursday night, I want you stepping beside me."
