Chapter 11 - The Gala

The grand marble steps of the Metropolitan Museum were flanked by dozens of paparazzi, their camera flashes illuminating the rainy Manhattan night like strobing lightning.

When the black armored Maybach pulled up to the red carpet, security formed a tight perimeter. The driver opened the door, and I stepped out, buttoning the jacket of my bespoke Tom Ford tuxedo.

Then, I turned and offered my hand to Hannah.

The crowd of photographers gasped in unison. Hannah stepped out of the vehicle looking like a queen. She wore an emerald green silk gown that swept the floor, her chestnut hair styled into an elegant updo, wearing the vintage diamond necklace that had once belonged to my grandmother. She held her head high, radiant, poised, and utterly breathtaking.

I tucked her hand securely into the crook of my elbow, and together we walked up the red carpet, ignoring the shouted questions and blinding lights.

Inside the grand hall, conversations instantly died down. Hundreds of eyes turned toward us—rivals, politicians, old family acquaintances—all staring in stunned disbelief. They had expected a broken widower drowning in grief; instead, they saw a titan walking with an undeniable force at his side.

"Keep your chin up," I whispered in her ear as we entered the ballroom. "They are looking at you because they wish they had half your courage."

Hannah smiled softly, leaning slightly into my side. "I'm not nervous, Lorenzo. Not with you."

Across the room, Senator Richard Vance—Tyler Vance’s wealthy, corrupt uncle who had funded the Castiglione campaign—glared at us with undisguised hatred. He set his champagne flute down and marched directly toward us, his face flushed with indignation.

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The surrounding guests gasped, a tense hush falling over the ballroom.