Chapter 4 Chapter 4

Alessia POV:

The Grand Oak loomed against the night sky, lit up like some perverse jewel. The moment I stepped from the car, I felt their stares, a thousand points of judgment in the glittering darkness. Tonight, I wasn't the wife of a powerful man. I was the evening's main attraction. A story about to be rewritten before a room full of judging eyes.

Dante's hand was a vise at the small of my back, steering me into the glittering ballroom.

Elara was at its heart, holding a glass of champagne, a victorious smirk playing on her lips. Her eyes found mine across the room, and that smirk widened into something sharp and triumphant.

"Alessia! You came!" she called out, her voice dripping with false sweetness. The crowd parted as Dante propelled me toward her.

"What is this?" I asked, my voice a strained whisper only she and Dante could hear. "What is the point of all this sick theater?"

"Theater?" Elara's facade of innocence was flawless. "I don't know what you mean. We're celebrating my return."

"You're a liar," I said, the words sharp and clear.

That was my mistake. Or perhaps, my first true act of defiance. The mask didn't just drop; it shattered. Her face, so eerily like my own, twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred.

"You dare?" she hissed.

The sound was a sharp, ugly crack in the suddenly silent ballroom. My head snapped to the side, my cheek burning not with pain, but with the cold fire of public humiliation. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. I tasted betrayal on my tongue, metallic and bitter.

I slowly turned my head back, my eyes locking on Dante. He stood there, his face a cold, impassive mask. He did nothing. He said nothing. His silence was a roar of approval.

Elara saw it too, and it emboldened her. A wild, crazed light entered her eyes.

"You think this pretty dress makes you one of us?" she screeched, her voice raw with a jealousy so profound it was pathological. "You are a doll, a substitute! A cheap copy!"

Her hands shot out, not to touch me, but to snatch a champagne flute from a passing tray. With a vicious, deliberate movement, she flung the golden liquid across the front of my silk maternity gown. The beautiful dress, a gift from Dante, was now stained and ruined, a stark symbol of her intent to tarnish every last piece of my standing.

The crowd murmured, a mix of shock and sick, eager anticipation. I stood there, exposed and humiliated, my arms instinctively crossing over my belly to protect my son.

"Look at her," Elara spat, circling me like a shark. "Still trying to protect the little jackpot. But he's not an heir. He's just the price of admission to the main event."

She stopped in front of me, her eyes glittering. She turned to the room, to the leering faces of Enzo, of Frank, of all the men from the chat group.

"Gentlemen," she announced, her voice ringing with triumph. "The wager was just a formality. The real spectacle starts now."

She pointed a long, manicured finger at me.

"She has disgraced me. She has ruined my homecoming. So, you will entertain me. You will make this substitute see her true place, right here, and you will ensure she understands what she has always been."

A tense, expectant energy filled the room. Enzo stepped forward, a cruel smile on his lips, his eyes cold with clinical detachment. Frank and two other men began to move, forming a loose circle, their presence a wall cutting off any hope of retreat.

I backed away a step, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My eyes found Dante one last time, a silent, desperate plea.

He just watched. His face was empty. He was a spectator at my downfall.

Enzo was in front of me now, his foul breath washing over my face. He reached out, his thick fingers aiming for my arm.

"The performance is over, little queen," he said, his voice low.

His hand was an inch from my skin. This was it. The end. There was no one coming. My father was too far away.

Just as his fingertips were about to make contact, the world exploded.

The grand double doors at the entrance of the ballroom were kicked open with a force that made the crystal chandeliers tremble. The wood splintered, the doors slamming against the walls with a deafening crash.

Framed in the doorway stood a man. He was older, with silver hair and a face carved from granite, wearing an impeccably tailored suit that couldn't hide the raw power in his frame. Behind him, a single, severe-looking man stood like a shadow.

He wasn't armed. He didn't need to be. His presence alone was a weapon.

His eyes, the same dark eyes I saw in my own reflection, swept across the room, taking in the scene with a chilling, predatory calm. He saw the leering circle of men, my ruined dress, the red imprint of a hand on my cheek. The temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees.

Dante and his men froze, stunned by the violent intrusion. Enzo's hand hovered in the air, forgotten.

The man's gaze finally settled on me, and for a fraction of a second, the icy fury in his eyes was replaced by a flicker of something raw and paternal. Then, that fury returned, magnified a hundredfold, as he turned his attention to the men surrounding me.

"Get your hands away from my daughter," Vincenzo Moretti commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that filled the entire ballroom.