Chapter 17
Rosália
The assassination of Katherine Cole’s career did not happen in a sterile, fluorescent-lit boardroom, nor did it require the aggressive, loud brutality that David used in his corporate warfare.
It happened over a plate of perfectly seared Chilean sea bass, amidst the delicate chime of Baccarat crystal and the heavy, almost suffocating scent of white lilies.
Rosália sat perfectly poised at the center of a circular table in the private dining room of the Leighton Club.
She was surrounded by five of the most powerful, unimaginably wealthy matriarchs in the city.
These were women who did not work, but who effortlessly controlled the social and financial currents of high society with a single, manicured wave of their hands.
They were also the exact demographic Katherine relied upon for her exorbitant, thousand-dollar-an-hour private Pilates sessions.
David had always arrogantly assumed that true power only existed in corner offices and courtrooms. He was a fool. As Rosália took a small, elegant sip of her sparkling water, she felt the intoxicating, dangerous thrill of real power vibrating in her veins. This was her arena.
“I must admit, Rosália,” Melanie Rosevelt murmured over the gold rim of her teacup.
Melanie was a formidable woman whose family owned half the commercial real estate in the district; a single word from her could bankrupt a small business.
“You are handling Sean’s... rather tragic midlife crisis with far more grace than I ever could.
The girl is so terribly loud. And that wardrobe. It screams new money.”
Rosália offered a soft, perfectly calibrated, melancholic smile.
She carefully dabbed the corner of her mouth with a pressed linen napkin.
She had spent ten years meticulously building a flawless reputation among these women as a refined, devoted wife and a brilliant gallery director.
She had their absolute, unquestioning loyalty.
She was one of them; Katherine was just the hired help who had overstepped.
“Sean is a dear, dear friend, Melanie,” Rosália sighed.
Her voice was laced with the perfect amount of hesitant, fabricated pity, drawing the women closer.
“But I do worry for him. The absolute lack of discretion is staggering. I heard through the estate manager that the girl’s financial situation has recently become quite. .. desperate.”
The atmosphere at the table instantly shifted. The polite, breezy chatter evaporated as the women collectively scented blood in the water.
“Desperate?” another woman whispered, leaning in so closely her diamond chandelier earrings caught the ambient light, casting sharp prisms across the tablecloth.
“It seems Sean has frozen all of her accounts due to some alarming, unexplained irregularities,” Rosália confided quietly.
She cast her dark eyes downward, playing the role of the reluctant gossip to perfection.
“She has been quietly soliciting extra private sessions, aggressively pressuring some of the younger wives for upfront cash packages. And, well...”
Rosália let the sentence hang for a fraction of a second, allowing the suspense to pull the snare completely tight.
“...given her history of finding wealthy, older men to fund her lifestyle,” Rosália murmured softly, “I would simply advise all of you to be incredibly careful about letting a woman with that kind of moral flexibility into your private home gyms. Especially while your husbands are present.”
The reaction was instantaneous, silent, and completely lethal.
Melanie’s perfectly drawn eyebrows shot up into her hairline.
A cold, ruthless understanding hardened her features.
The other women exchanged sharp, horrified glances.
In the elite, intensely paranoid world of wealthy wives, the absolute worst sin a young, attractive personal trainer could commit was the mere implication of being a desperate homewrecker looking for her next paycheck.
“Cancel my Tuesday morning session with her,” Melanie immediately snapped, not even turning her head to look at her assistant, who was standing discreetly against the silk-paneled wall. “Permanently. Tell her security will not let her past the gate.”
“Mine as well,” the woman to her left echoed, her manicured nails tapping aggressively against her phone screen. “I won’t have that kind of liability sweating in my house.”
Rosália picked up her silver fork, slicing into a piece of the buttery sea bass.
She kept her face an absolute mask of polite, mournful sympathy, but internally, a dark, wicked rush of pure euphoria washed over her.
By the time the dessert course—a delicate raspberry mille-feuille—was served, Katherine’s entire high-net-worth client list had been completely, irrevocably eradicated.
The social guillotine had fallen without a single drop of blood being spilled on Rosália’s white silk blouse.
Forty-eight hours later, the Aura Wellness Gala was in full swing.
It was the most photographed, fiercely exclusive charity event of the season, a glittering spectacle held at the city’s modern art museum. It was exactly the kind of highly publicized, high-society event Katherine desperately needed to attend to salvage her dying brand and beg for new sponsors.
And she wasn’t getting anywhere near the door.
Rosália stood on the VIP balcony overlooking the long, sprawling red carpet. The cool night air bit pleasantly at her bare shoulders, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from the man standing right beside her.
She wore a breathtaking, floor-length gown of midnight blue velvet.
It clung perfectly to the swell of her hips before falling to the floor, a daring slit running up her thigh to expose a pair of silver, sparkling stilettos.
Her dark hair was swept over one shoulder, exposing the elegant line of her neck.
Beside her, Sean looked like a dark, modern god of war.
He wore a tailored black tuxedo that highlighted the imposing, broad expanse of his shoulders.
He stood incredibly close to her side—much closer than polite society dictated.
The physical proximity was driving her out of her mind.
Every time he shifted his weight, his arm brushed against hers, sending a violent, electric spark straight through her velvet dress and into her skin.
The chemistry radiating between them was a heavy, palpable force, drawing the curious, whispering eyes of everyone in the VIP lounge.
“I detest these events,” Sean murmured, his deep voice a low, dark rumble right next to her ear. The warm breath ghosted over her skin, making her shiver.
“Tell yourself that the show we’re about to get will more than make up for it,” Rosália whispered back, tilting her head slightly toward him, her lips curving into a secret smile.
Sean smirked.
“That, and presenting the museum director with a ridiculously oversized novelty check for two million dollars to maintain my philanthropic tax status,” he replied dryly, his dark gaze dropping to her lips.
“The second the photographers capture the handshake, we are out of here. I’m taking you to dinner, as promised. ”
The raw, possessive promise in his tone made Rosália’s breath hitch.
But before Rosália could reply, her attention was violently hijacked by the relentless, frantic vibration coming from the silver clutch in her hand.
David had been spiraling into a black hole of absolute paranoia for two days. His career was actively collapsing, his managing partners were icing him out of his own firm, and his absolute loss of control was manifesting in a desperate, suffocating need to track his wife’s every single movement.
Rosália finally snapped the clutch open, pulling out the phone. The screen was blindingly bright against the dark night, displaying a relentless barrage of frantic texts.
David [7:15 PM]: The house is empty. Where are you?
David [7:42 PM]: Why did the Vanguard joint account get billed for a five-thousand-dollar dress?
David [8:05 PM]: Rose, answer me. The gallery said you left at three.
David [8:22 PM]: Are you at the Aura Gala? Are you with him?
David [8:30 PM]: I am your husband. Answer your fucking phone.
Sean glanced down at the glowing screen, taking a slow, measured sip of his Laurent-Perrier champagne. “He is completely unraveling.”
“He’s suffocating,” Rosália corrected smoothly.
She didn’t feel a single ounce of pity. She felt entirely liberated.
“He has absolutely no power left at the firm, Katherine is financially useless to him, so he’s trying to violently tighten the leash on me to prove to his shattered ego that he still owns something. ”
With a cold, detached precision, Rosália finally unlocked the screen and typed a response.
Rosália: I am at the Gala. Stop blowing up my phone, David. You are acting like a lunatic.
She watched the three grey dots appear instantly. He was staring at his screen, waiting in the dark of their empty house.
David: Why did you go with Sean? You are a married woman. I am leaving the house right now. I am coming to pick you up.
A dark, genuine laugh escaped Rosália’s lips. The image of David, wearing a wrinkled suit, pacing his home office and frantically demanding obedience while his life burned to the ground, was almost poetic. She looked up at Sean, her dark eyes flashing with a wicked, intoxicating thrill.
“He says he’s driving here to pick me up,” she murmured.
Sean’s jaw locked. His large, warm hand slid smoothly and unapologetically around her waist. He pulled her flush against his side, his hand resting heavily and possessively against the bare skin of her lower back.
The intense heat of his touch was an absolute brand, staking a claim that David could never break.
“Tell him not to bother,” Sean commanded softly, his eyes burning with dark fire.
Rosália looked back at the screen, her fingers flying over the glass.
Rosália: Don’t embarrass yourself, David. There is no need for you to come. Sean and I have another event to attend shortly after this anyway. Go to sleep.
She locked the phone and dropped it back into her clutch, effectively silencing him. She buried him in the agonizing, suffocating paranoia of wondering exactly what that “other event” was, letting his toxic imagination tear him apart.
“Look,” Sean murmured, his voice suddenly sharp as he nodded toward the street below.
Rosália stepped closer to the glass railing, looking down at the red carpet.
A standard black town car had pulled up to the curb. The door opened, and Katherine stepped out into the chaotic, flashing lights of the paparazzi.
She looked absolutely desperate. She was wearing a heavily sequined, aggressively plunging designer gown that clearly looked like a last-minute rental.
Her smile was incredibly tight, practically brittle, as she posed for the cameras.
She was throwing her shoulders back, desperately trying to project the illusion of the successful, wealthy, untouchable influencer she had been just a week ago.
Rosália watched with cold, absolute detachment as Katherine walked up the red carpet toward the heavy velvet rope.
The head of security, a massive, imposing man in a black suit holding a glowing iPad, stepped directly into Katherine’s path. He didn’t smile. He didn’t bow his head in reverence like the hotel staff used to. He simply held up a large, unyielding hand, physically blocking her from the entrance.
Even from the balcony, three stories up, Rosália could read the agonizing exchange.
Katherine’s brittle smile faltered, her face dropping. She gestured wildly to herself, pointing at the museum doors, her mouth moving in a frantic, panicked explanation. She was likely dropping Sean’s name, demanding they check the VIP list again, screaming that she was the guest of a billionaire.
The security guard looked down at his iPad. He shook his head slowly, and pointed a stern, dismissive finger back toward the dark street.
Denied.
The paparazzi, practically smelling the humiliation in the air, swarmed the rope.
The blinding white flashes of their cameras erupted like violent strobe lights, capturing every single agonizing, pathetic second of Katherine’s public execution.
They photographed the security guard denying her entry.
They photographed her panicked, flushed face.
They photographed the exact, devastating moment the realization hit her that she had been completely, permanently erased from society.
Katherine stumbled backward. She held her hand up to shield her face from the relentless, mocking flashes, looking like a terrified, trapped animal.
She turned, the rented sequins catching the light, and practically ran back down the carpet.
She fled into the dark city streets, leaving her entire manufactured life behind her on the pavement.
On the balcony, the silence between Sean and Rosália was heavy, electric, and incredibly profound.
Rosália turned her head, looking up at the billionaire standing beside her. Sean was already looking at her. The dark, ruthless satisfaction in his eyes perfectly mirrored the exact, intoxicating feeling blooming in her own chest. They had completely starved the parasite out.
Sean’s hand tightened on her waist, pulling her even closer, his thumb gently, intimately stroking the curve of her spine. The museum, the gala, the paparazzi—it all faded into background noise.
“The check is signed,” Sean murmured softly, his gaze dropping to her lips, the heavy promise of the night ahead vibrating in the narrow space between them. “Shall we go to dinner?”
“Yes,” Rosália breathed, a genuine, radiant smile breaking across her face, feeling more alive than she had in ten years.