Chapter 5 - The Gala at the Plaza
Two weeks into Harper’s employment, the Moretti family prepared for the annual Metropolitan Charity Gala at The Plaza Hotel—a massive gathering of New York’s elite, business moguls, and high-society families.
Harper spent the afternoon helping Beatrice select a magnificent emerald-green gown. When Beatrice insisted that Harper attend as her personal guest, Harper panicked.
I don't belong at a gala, Harper signed rapidly. I am your employee.
Beatrice waved her hand dismissively. You are my voice tonight. And you are wearing silk.
With Beatrice’s insistence, a team of stylists arrived at Harper’s cottage, transforming her. When she stepped out into the main foyer that evening, she wore a simple, elegant navy silk gown that draped gracefully over her frame. Her dark hair was styled in soft waves, and her pale skin seemed to glow against the deep color of the dress.
Roman stood at the bottom of the stairs, wearing a tailored black tuxedo. When he looked up and saw Harper, he stopped mid-sentence. His security chief, Carter, looked between Roman and Harper, wisely stepping back.
Harper descended the stairs, feeling suddenly self-conscious under his intense gaze. “Is this too much? I told Beatrice—”
“You look stunning,” Roman interrupted, his voice dropping an octave.
Harper’s breath hitched. A warm flush spread across her neck.
Roman stepped forward, offering his arm. “Tonight will be complicated. There are people in that room who wish me harm. Stay close to me, and stay closer to my mother.”
“I understand,” Harper said, placing her gloved hand on his arm. His muscles were like iron beneath the fine wool of his jacket.
At The Plaza, the ballroom was a sea of glittering chandeliers, champagne towers, and high-pitched laughter. Harper stayed at Beatrice’s side, translating conversations with high-society matriarchs who were astonished by Beatrice’s renewed social energy.
For the first time in years, Beatrice was the center of attention on her own terms, signing jokes that Harper fluidly translated, causing small circles of wealthy guests to burst into genuine laughter.
From across the room, Roman stood with a glass of champagne, surrounded by politicians and business associates. Yet his eyes rarely left Harper. He watched the way her hands moved with grace, the way her eyes lit up when she smiled, and the fierce, quiet loyalty she showed his mother.
Suddenly, a man approached Roman’s circle. He was older, with sharp gray eyes and a cruel, thin-lipped smile—Dominic Vance, the head of a rival syndicate that had been pushing against the Moretti borders for months.
Vance’s eyes drifted toward Beatrice and Harper. “I see your mother brought a new pet tonight, Roman,” Vance sneered softly, keeping his voice low. “A little charity case from Queens, isn't she?”
Roman’s hand tightened around his glass until the crystal groaned under the pressure. “Choose your next words very carefully, Vance.”
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“I’m just observing,” Vance chuckled darkly. “It must be exhausting, keeping track of deaf old women and helpless girls. A man in your position shouldn't have so many vulnerabilities.”
Roman turned to face Vance fully, his presence instantly suffocating the space around them. “If you even look in their direction again, Vance, I won't just take your territory. I’ll tear down everything you’ve built brick by brick.”
