Chapter 8 - The Newport Gala
Three weeks later, the Newport estate was gleaming under a canopy of crystal chandeliers and autumn moonlight.
The charity gala celebrating the opening of the Collier-Wellington Pediatric Pavilion was the social event of the season, drawing governors, tech moguls, philanthropists, and international media from across the Atlantic.
I wore a midnight-blue velvet gown that swept gracefully across the polished parquet floor of the grand ballroom. On my finger sat a heavy, platinum-and-sapphire ring that Marcus had slipped onto my hand during a quiet sunrise in Vermont.
As we stood receiving congratulations from the city’s mayor, a familiar face drifted through the crowd near the champagne tower.
It was Chloe.
She looked older, her dyed blonde hair growing out at the roots, wearing an off-the-rack sequined dress that looked slightly out of place among the haute couture of the billionaire elite. She had managed to secure a plus-one invitation through a minor real estate investor, hoping to catch a glimpse of the high life she had lost when Trent’s world collapsed.
When her eyes locked onto mine—standing at the head of the ballroom next to Marcus Wellington, draped in jewels and running a multi-billion-dollar foundation—she stopped dead in her tracks.
I didn't gloat. I didn't point or whisper.
May you like
I simply raised my champagne flute toward her in a silent, polite toast, took a sip, and turned my attention back to Marcus, who was whispering a joke in my ear that made me laugh out loud.
Chloe quietly turned around and walked out of the ballroom, swallowed up by the autumn night.
