Chapter 5 - The Drake Hotel and the Golden Cage
By Friday evening, my apartment had turned into a zone of high-stress tactical operations.
Priya had insisted on babysitting so I could get ready without Nora trying to paint my fingernails neon green, but Nora had still insisted on inspecting my outfit three times before I zipped up the dress.
It wasn't much—just a simple, dark navy sheath dress I’d bought on clearance two years ago for a nursing association dinner, paired with low heels that didn't click too loudly. When I looked in the hallway mirror, I still looked like Maren Ellis: tired eyes, hair pinned up in a functional knot, carrying the invisible weight of fifty-hour work weeks and overdue electric bills.
Then the knock came at the door.
When I opened it, I didn't find a standard taxi driver. Standing in our dingy, poorly lit third-floor hallway was a man in a charcoal suit who looked like he’d stepped straight out of a GQ spread, holding a pristine white florist box tied with a satin ribbon.
"Mrs. Salvano," the man said with a polite, deferential nod. "Mr. Salvano's car is waiting downstairs."
Inside the box was a single, perfect white peony resting on a bed of tissue paper—the exact flower that had crowded every surface of the Ashwick Grand ballroom a week ago. Pinned to the stem was a small white card written in sharp, clean cursive: Blue suits you.
By the time I slid into the back of the black town car idling at the curb, my hands were sweating.
The Drake Hotel sat majestically at the top of the Magnificent Mile, its vintage architecture glowing under golden floodlights against the autumn sky. When the car door opened, a valet rushed forward, and we were whisked past the paparazzi and society reporters straight into the grand ballroom.
The room was blinding—crystal chandeliers, glittering gowns, champagne flutes catching the light, and men in tuxedos discussing municipal contracts and real estate portfolios in low, guarded tones.
And right there near the entrance, holding a glass of sparkling water, stood Matteo.
He looked up the moment we stepped through the double doors. His gray eyes scanned the crowd, found me instantly, and softened around the edges. He was wearing a midnight-blue tuxedo that matched my dress with terrifying, premeditated precision.
He crossed the room in three long strides, stopping just in front of me.
"You look stunning," he murmured, his gaze sweeping over my simple navy dress with genuine appreciation that made my breath catch.
"You planned this," I accused quietly, gesturing to the matching colors. "You knew what I was wearing."
"I knew what color looked best on you," he corrected with a faint, wicked smirk.
Before I could retort, a sharp, familiar voice cut through the ambient music behind us.
"Well. Look who decided to grace us with her presence."
I froze.
Matteo’s hand settled securely against the small of my back, guiding me gently as I turned around to face my mother, accompanied by my aunt and—to my absolute horror—Connor and a heavily pregnant Paige.
My mother marched up to us, her eyes darting between Matteo and me like a hawk scanning for field mice. She looked like she hadn't slept in a week.
"Maren," my mother said, her voice dripping with tight, forced civility. "Your aunt and I were just saying... it’s so strange that none of our friends downtown have any record of a marriage license filed under your name or Mr. Salvano's last week."
The air in the ballroom seemed to drop ten degrees.
Around us, several nearby conversations stuttered and died as society elites tuned in for the floor show. Connor stood a few feet back, his arms crossed over his chest, wearing a smug, triumphant grin as if he’d finally caught me in a massive, humiliating lie.
"We didn't file locally, Helen," Matteo answered before I could even draw a breath. His voice was smooth, cold, and possessed a terrifying edge of absolute finality.
My mother blinked, taken aback. "Pardon?"
"We filed in international waters," Matteo said, his gray eyes locking onto my mother’s with an expression of such serene, unbothered confidence that it took my breath away. "Or rather, aboard a private yacht off the coast of Monaco. Bureaucracy is such a tedious waste of a honeymoon."
My mother’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again like a fish out of water. "Monaco? You went to Monaco for a Tuesday wedding?!"
"My wife," Matteo emphasized the word, sliding his arm a fraction of an inch tighter around my waist and pulling me flush against his side, "deserves nothing less than the best. Isn't that right, darling?"
He looked down at me, his gaze softening into something so warm and convincing I almost forgot we’d met because he needed a prop to dodge an arranged marriage.
I swallowed hard, feeling the eyes of every wealthy, judgmental person in Chicago burning into my skin. I remembered the way Connor had looked at me in the ballroom—the pity, the condescension, the absolute certainty that I was trapped in my small, miserable life forever.
I reached up, my hand resting naturally against the lapel of Matteo’s tuxedo, right over his heart. I smiled—a genuine, radiant smile born of pure, unadulterated rebellion.
"He spoils me terribly, Mother," I said, my voice carrying clearly across the silent circle of relatives. "You should ask him to show you the photos sometime. Though... security is awfully strict about who gets to see them."
Connor’s smug smile vanished completely, replaced by a dark, furious scowl. Paige gripped his arm, whispering something frantic in his ear.
Matteo looked down at me, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his dark eyes before a slow, approving smile broke across his face.
He didn't just play his part. He owned it.
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And standing there in the middle of the Drake Hotel ballroom, wrapped in the protective shadow of the most dangerous man in Chicago, I realized something terrifying:
I didn't want the ten minutes to end. And six months might not be nearly long enough.
