4. Nora
— ? —
Nora
Three Weeks Later
“You’re not seriously wearing that.”
Sophia’s standing in her bedroom doorway, coffee in hand, watching me zip up the red dress. The anniversary dress. The one Dante never showed up to see.
“Why not?”
“Because half of Manhattan is going to be at this gala, and they’ve all read the gossip blogs, and you’re going to walk in there looking like-” She gestures at me. “Like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like a woman who’s about to start a war.”
I turn to face the mirror. She’s not wrong. The dress fits differently now - three weeks of not being able to eat will do that - but it’s not worse. If anything, I look sharper. Hungrier. Like someone who’s stopped waiting to be seen and started demanding it.
“Good,” I say.
Sophia sets down her coffee and crosses the room. Her hands find my shoulders, and she meets my eyes in the mirror.
“Nora. You don’t have to go tonight. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”
“I’m not proving anything.”
“Then what are you doing?”
I think about it. Really think. For three weeks I’ve been hiding in my sister’s guest room, dodging calls, watching my marriage implode in slow motion across the society pages.
MORETTI MARRIAGE ON THE ROCKS. BILLIONAIRE’S WIFE FLEES FAMILY HOME.
And my personal favorite: SOURCES SAY ASSISTANT VANESSA MARSH HAD BEEN “CLOSE” TO DANTE FOR MONTHS.
I’m so tired of being the woman things happen to.
“I’m done disappearing,” I say. “I spent a year shrinking myself down so small I could barely see my own reflection. I’m done.”
Sophia squeezes my shoulders. Her eyes are fierce.
“Then don’t disappear,” she says. “Detonate.”
***
The Harrison Foundation gala is exactly what I expected: crystal chandeliers, champagne towers, and enough old money to buy a small country. I hand my coat to the attendant and pause at the top of the stairs.
Whispers start before I’m halfway down.
There she is. The Moretti wife. Did you hear about the assistant?
I keep my chin up. Keep walking. My heels click against the marble like a countdown.
She looks good, though. Better than I expected.
I heard she’s been staying with her sister. Complete breakdown.
Can you blame her? Finding out your husband’s been screwing his secretary-
“You know,” says a voice at my elbow, “in my experience, the whispers are usually more interesting than the people doing the whispering.”
I turn. And look up.
The man is tall - taller than Dante - with dark hair going silver at the temples and the kind of jaw that belongs on a Roman coin. His tuxedo is immaculate, his smile is sharp, and his eyes are fixed on me like I’m the only person in the room.
“Julian Cross,” he says, extending his hand. “And you must be the infamous Nora Moretti.”
Julian Cross. Dante’s biggest competitor. The man who’s been trying to poach his clients for years. He also sits on the board of the Harrison Foundation, whose gala this is.
I should walk away. This is a terrible idea.
I take his hand.
“Just Nora tonight,” I say. “I’m trying out the name without the Moretti attached.”
His smile widens. “And how’s that going?”
“Ask me in an hour.”
He laughs - a real laugh, surprised and delighted - and something in my chest loosens. When was the last time I made someone laugh like that? When was the last time anyone looked at me like I’d said something worth hearing?
“Can I get you a drink?” he asks. “You look like a woman who could use champagne and a buffer between herself and the vultures.”
“Is that what you are? A buffer?”
“I’m whatever you need me to be.” His hand finds the small of my back - light, questioning, ready to pull away if I tense. I don’t tense. “Come on. Let’s give them something to really talk about.”
***
Julian Cross is not what I expected.
I expected cold. Calculating. The kind of man who sees people as chess pieces and conversations as moves. Dante always talked about him like he was the enemy - ruthless, dangerous, not to be trusted.
But the man standing next to me at the bar is…
charming. Warm, even. He asks questions and actually listens to the answers.
He makes jokes that aren’t at anyone’s expense.
When I mention that I used to paint - back before the marriage, back when I had time for things that were just mine - his eyes light up.
“What kind of painting?”
“Oils, mostly. Landscapes. I haven’t picked up a brush in years.”
“Why not?”
The question catches me off guard. No one’s asked me that. Not even Sophia.
“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “I think I… forgot. That it was something I did. Something I was good at.”
“That’s the cruelest thing,” Julian says, “when you forget the things that make you yourself.” He takes a sip of his whiskey. “I’d love to see your work sometime. If you ever start again.”
“That’s presumptuous.”
“Is it?”
“We’ve known each other for twenty minutes.”
“Twenty-three.” He grins. “But who’s counting?”
I laugh. It comes out rusty, like a door that hasn’t been opened in too long. Julian’s eyes soften.
“There it is,” he says quietly.
“There what is?”
“The laugh. I was starting to think the gossip was right - that you’d forgotten how.”
“The gossip says a lot of things.”
“The gossip says you’re broken.” He leans closer. Not threatening, just… present. “You don’t look broken to me.”
“What do I look like?”
“Like a woman who’s finally waking up.” His hand is still on my back. I can feel the warmth of it through the silk. “Like someone who’s been asleep for a long time and is just now remembering what it feels like to be alive.”
I should pull away. This is Dante’s enemy. This is exactly the kind of ammunition the gossip blogs are salivating for.
But I don’t pull away.
Because for the first time in a year, someone is looking at me like I matter. Like I’m worth seeing. Like I’m more than just Dante Moretti’s invisible wife.
“You walked in like you owned the place,” Julian says.
“I walked in like I finally exist.”
“You do.” His eyes hold mine. “Trust me. You very much exist.”
The air between us shifts. Charges. I’m suddenly aware of how close we’re standing, how his cologne smells like cedar and something darker, how his thumb is tracing small circles on my back-
“Get your hands off my wife.”
***
The voice comes from behind me. Low. Dangerous. Familiar as my own heartbeat.
Julian’s hand stills but doesn’t drop. I watch his expression shift - amusement, calculation, the faintest flicker of challenge.
“Dante.” His voice is pleasant. “Lovely to see you.”
“I said get your hands off her.”
I turn around.
Dante looks terrible. His tuxedo is immaculate - of course it is, he’d never show up to an event looking anything less than perfect - but underneath the polish, he’s falling apart.
Dark circles under his eyes. Jaw tight enough to crack.
He’s looking at Julian’s hand on my back like he wants to rip it off at the wrist.
“Dante,” I say. My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
“Nora.” His eyes finally meet mine, and the hunger in them makes my stomach flip. “We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
“You’re not asking. You’re demanding. In the middle of a gala. In front of-” I gesture at the room, at the dozens of eyes now fixed on us. “Everyone.”
“I don’t care about everyone.” He steps closer. Julian’s hand tightens almost imperceptibly on my back. “I care about you. I need you to hear me out.”
“I heard you out three weeks ago. You pushed her off. You fired her. You’re very sorry.” I take a sip of champagne. “Did I miss anything?”
“Nora-”
“What do you want me to say, Dante? That I forgive you? That we can go back to the way things were?” I laugh, and it sounds nothing like the laugh I gave Julian. This one is sharp. Bitter. “The way things were is why I left.”
“I know.” His voice cracks. “I know, and I’m trying to-”
“Try somewhere else.” I turn back to Julian, dismissing Dante like he’s a stranger at a party. Like he’s nobody. “Sorry about that. You were saying something about my painting?”
“Nora.” Dante’s hand closes around my elbow.
I look down at it. Then up at him.
“Let go.”
“Not until you talk to me.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Then just listen. Please.” His grip loosens but doesn’t release. “Five minutes. That’s all. Five minutes, and if you still want me to leave you alone, I will. I swear.”
“Your swears don’t mean much these days.”
He flinches. Actually flinches, like I’ve slapped him.
Good.
“Nora-”
“I said let go.”
Julian shifts beside me. “I believe the lady asked you to remove your hand.”
Dante’s eyes snap to him. The look on his face is murderous.
“Stay out of this, Cross. This is between me and my wife.”
“Actually,” I say, and I pull my arm free, “I’m not your anything anymore, Dante.”
I don’t turn around.
I don’t watch him leave.
But I feel it - the moment he stops trying. The moment he turns and walks away. The air shifts. The weight lifts.
Julian’s hand finds my back again.
“You okay?”
“No.” I drain my champagne. “But I will be.”