Chapter 5 - Venom in the Shadow
For the next ten days, the Moretti Atelier became my sanctuary and my fortress.
I barely slept, driven by an intoxicating mix of artistic inspiration and vengeance. Supported by Dante’s vast resources, I brought in master embroiderers from Paris and lace-makers from Venice. Together, we worked on a gown that was nothing short of a masterpiece—a structured, obsidian-black silk gown detailed with hand-sewn ruby crystals that caught the light like burning embers.
It was bold. It was dangerous. It was the complete opposite of the soft, submissive white dress I had worn to the cathedral.
Meanwhile, outside the atelier, the storm was brewing.
Nathan Whitmore and his mother hadn't taken Dante’s threat lying down. Driven by desperation and humiliated by the public tabloids—which were having a field day with the "Runaway Bride of Manhattan"—they attempted to strike back.
Veronica Hale released a statement to the press claiming that I was a scam artist who had intentionally sabotaged my own dress to stage a publicity stunt with Dante Moretti.
On a Tuesday afternoon, as I was pinning the final hem of the gown, Dante walked into the studio, his expression grim.
"They're playing dirty," he said, handing me a iPad showing a viral news headline: FAKED TRAGEDY? BRIDE ACCUSED OF EMBEZZLING WEDDING FUNDS FROM WHITMORE FAMILY.
I dropped my shears, my blood running cold. "Embezzling?! I bought every single spool of thread for that wedding with my own savings!"
"I know," Dante said calmly, resting a hand on my shoulder. His touch sent a warm wave of reassurance through my body. "Nathan produced forged receipts claiming he gave you fifty thousand dollars for wedding preparations."
"He's trying to have me arrested," I whispered, panic rising in my throat.
"He's trying to break you so you'll come back on your knees and drop the charges against Veronica," Dante corrected. He pulled a silver pen from his pocket and tapped the tablet screen. "But Nathan forgot one tiny detail."
"What detail?"
May you like
"He forgot that I own the bank where those forged receipts were supposedly processed," Dante said, a dangerous glint in his eye. "My legal team has already pulled the original transaction records. Tomorrow night at the Met Gala, we aren't just revealing your new collection, Clara."
He leaned down, his voice thick with cold promise. "We are delivering the warrant for Nathan Whitmore's arrest on live television."
