Chapter 3 - THE GALA OF THE DAMNEDThe Grand Ballroom of the Royal Meridian Hotel was a swirling vortex of wealth, power, and flashing camera bulbs. Elite socialites, corrupt politicians, and old-money dynasties sipped champagne under crystal chandeliers the size of sports cars.
Standing near the VIP bar, Andrew Whitman sweated profusely inside his tailored tuxedo. At fifty-two, he looked older, his face lined with stress and bitter desperation. Beside him stood his aging father, chewing furiously on a cigar stub that had long since gone out.
"If this investor doesn't sign the bailout papers tonight, the company goes into receivership by Monday," Andrew hissed, swirling his scotch. "Our family name will be a laughingstock."
"Quiet, boy," the elder Whitman grunted, adjusting his bowtie. "Just smile and nod. Whoever bought our debt is a whale. Play your cards right, and we might survive this."
Suddenly, the orchestra music swelled and abruptly stopped. A hush fell over the three hundred guests as the grand double doors at the head of the ballroom swung wide open.
A spotlight hit the threshold.
Stepping out first was Dante Moretti, radiant in his immaculate white tuxedo jacket, his silver hair catching the light. But it wasn’t Dante that made the room gasp; it was the woman on his arm.
Grace Moretti descended the sweeping marble staircase like an empress entering a conquered city. Every eye in the room locked onto her. The emerald silk gown trailed behind her with effortless grace, the rubies at her neck blazing under the light. Her posture was porcelain-perfect, her expression an icy, untouchable mask of absolute serenity.
Behind her walked three stunning little girls in matching designer dresses, curtsying politely to the applauding crowd.
Andrew Whitman froze. His glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the marble floor with a sharp crack that echoed across the silent room. Color drained entirely from his face, leaving him a ghastly, chalky white.
Grace? his mind screamed. That's... that's impossible!
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The elder Whitman grabbed his son's arm, his nails digging in so hard he drew blood. "Andrew... isn't that... isn't that the woman you threw out into the rain three years ago?"
Andrew couldn't speak. His throat had completely closed up. He watched in sheer horror as Grace, escorted by the most feared mob boss in the country, glided across the floor directly toward their table.
