Laughter followed me down the aisle before the wedding march had even faded away. Someone had deliberately sliced open the wedding dress I had sewn with my own hands, my fiancé stood there and watched me be humiliated in front of hundreds of guests, and the only man who finally came to my rescue was Manhattan's most notorious Mafia boss. Then he asked one quiet question that turned the entire cathedral into a graveyard of silence.

The night of the Metropolitan Autumn Gala arrived.

The grand museum stairs were covered in a sweeping red carpet, flanked by hundreds of flashing cameras, international reporters, and the elite royalty of New York society.

Nathan Whitmore stood near the entrance alongside his mother and Veronica Hale, trying desperately to smile for the photographers. They were attempting to show the world that the scandal hadn't shaken them, but the tense, anxious sweat on Nathan's brow gave him away.

Suddenly, the crowd went dead silent.

A long, matte-black Maybach pulled up to the foot of the red carpet.

Four towering security guards stepped out first, creating a barrier against the pressing press line. Then, the rear door opened.

Dante Moretti stepped out, looking regal in a bespoke dark velvet tuxedo. He turned and extended his hand into the vehicle.

I took his hand and stepped out into the flashing lights.

The collective gasp from the crowd was audible over the roaring city traffic.

My obsidian-black gown clung to my silhouette like armor, the ruby crystals shimmering under the camera flashes like drops of fire. My hair was styled in a sleek, commanding crown, and my head was held high. I was no longer the timid, quiet girl hiding behind a needle and thread.

Beside me, Dante looked at me not as a benefactor, but as a king looking at his queen.

"Ready?" he whispered softly into my ear.

"More than ready," I replied.

We walked up the red carpet with slow, deliberate steps. As we approached the top of the stairs, Nathan’s eyes locked onto mine. His jaw dropped. The glass of champagne in his hand shook so violently that liquid spilled over his fingers.

"Clara...?" Nathan gasped, taking an impulsive step forward. "You... how dare you show your face here after what you did?!"

Veronica backed away, her eyes wide with sheer horror as she stared at the gown I was wearing—a creation far superior to anything she could ever dream of owning.

Before Nathan could say another word, Dante stepped between us, shielding me with his grand presence.

"Step back, Whitmore," Dante said coldly.

"This woman stole from my family!" Nathan yelled, trying to attract the attention of the surrounding press. "She's a criminal! Officers, arrest her!"