Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Elena
After Dante got hurt, he became even busier, barely setting foot in the manor. But something shifted between us after that night. He started texting me—letting me know whether he'd be back or not.
Marco was recovering at the manor, and sometimes Dante would text asking how he was doing.
My phone buzzed. Another message from Dante. "Attending Lombardi family dinner tonight. I'll pick you up at the manor this evening."
I'd just replied when Lucia handed me the invitation the Lombardi Family had sent over. Gold-embossed, understated yet lavish—pure Lombardi style. The family had deep roots, wealth beyond measure, and ties to every major family in New York.
Lucia told me, "The Lombardis and Mr. Salvador Morreti go way back. For events like this, the lady of the Moretti house has to show up."
I nodded. "We'd better get moving this afternoon, then. Dante's coming back to pick me up."
Lucia's eyes glinted with knowing amusement. "Sounds like things are better between you two."
I couldn't quite meet her gaze. What happened that night with injured Dante in bed still made my face burn every time I thought about it. If that counted as things getting better, then Lucia was right.
This was my first public appearance as Mrs. Moretti, and my grip on the invitation tightened. Nerves crawled up my spine. The last time I'd been in a setting like this was at my wedding to Dante—a memory I'd rather forget.
But I knew I couldn't avoid this.
The closet was lined with untouched designer dresses, but I didn't choose any of them. I went back to my room instead. The Lombardi Family was famous for fashion and jewelry—their design house had over a century of history, known for minimalist elegance.
If I was representing the Moretti family, I wanted to wear something I'd made myself. Maybe that would suit their taste better.
I'd finished a deep emerald dress earlier—satin fabric, clean lines at the waist, a slit from mid-thigh that showed leg when I moved. V-neck, not too deep, just below the collarbone. Perfect with an emerald necklace.
I tried it on, turned in front of the mirror, and let out a satisfied breath.
By the time I was ready, Dante was waiting at the manor entrance. He sat in the black stretch limo in a sharp suit. When he saw me, his gaze softened. He reached out his hand and pulled me into the car.
The Lombardi estate dwarfed the Moretti manor. Lights blazed everywhere. The fountain in the courtyard gleamed silver in the darkness. Guests clustered in groups, champagne glasses catching amber light.
When Dante and I entered the ballroom, eyes turned our way. Many of these people had been at our wedding. They knew what happened that day.
Panic seized me. What if he left me standing there again? What if I was humiliated all over again?
Dante felt me stiffen. His hand covered mine where it rested on his arm, a gentle pat. "Just stay with me."
I forced a smile, took a deep breath, and lifted my chin.
The evening went smoothly. When Dante talked business with family representatives, I stood beside him—smiling, nodding, raising my glass at the right moments. Eventually some business partners pulled him away, and I drifted to the buffet area, nursing a glass of champagne.
"Your dress is really something special."
A male voice beside me. I turned to find a man in a charcoal suit standing a few feet away, whiskey in hand, studying my dress with careful attention—not looking at me, but at what I'd made.
"The tailoring's sharp. The waistline's perfect. And the fabric choice is spot-on." He stepped closer, eyes bright. "Did you have it made in New York?"
He didn't seem threatening, so I smiled. "I made it myself."
He blinked. Then a surprised smile crossed his face. "You made this?"
He looked at the dress again, more seriously this time. "This waistline technique—it's unusual. Not standard commercial cut. Where did you study design?"
Embarrassment crept in. I'd never taken a single formal class. "Nowhere, really. Just picked it up."
The man seemed to see right through me. He gave an apologetic smile and extended his hand. "Luca Lombardi. Nice to meet you."
I shook it lightly. "Elena Moretti."
"Moretti? Now I know who you are." He smiled, releasing my hand. "Your dress says a lot. You didn't wear some big-name designer's piece to this party—you wore something you made. Either you don't understand high society rules, or you don't care."
He paused. "I'm guessing it's the latter."
I didn't answer. Truth was, I wasn't trying to make a statement—I genuinely didn't know there were rules about this. And Dante knew but said nothing. Did he not care either?
"New York's full of independent designers these days," Luca said casually, leaning against the buffet table.
"But most don't really understand fabric and tailoring.
They outsource to factories, slap on a label, call it independent design.
But that's not what you did. I can tell from your stitching. "
He started talking fabrics—Italian wool blends, Japanese washed linen, silk from small workshops in southern France. Most of the materials and techniques he mentioned were completely new to me.
This was the first time since coming to New York that I'd met someone who truly understood design and was willing to talk about it. But we didn't talk long. A tall figure appeared, stepping between me and Luca.
Dante.
He didn't look at me. He watched Luca like a prowling lion, while his hand naturally curved around my waist—not heavy, but possessive. Unmistakable.
"Mr. Lombardi." His tone was polite but cold. "You seem to be enjoying my wife's company."
Luca raised his glass with a knowing smile. "Your wife has impressive design talent. You should bring her out more. Encourage her to keep creating. New York's design scene needs fresh talent."
He nodded to me, gave a playful wink, and walked away.
Dante didn't respond. He looked down at me, eyes traveling from my face to my dress and back to my eyes. "I never knew you could make clothes."
"I don't think I'm that talented, so I don't really mention it." I smiled apologetically. Dante studied me with interest, his gaze making my face heat up. I grabbed for the nearest glass. "Want a drink?"
Dante took the glass from my hand and set it aside. Then his palm pressed against my lower back, pulling me close. He bent his head, breath warm against my ear. "Forgot what happened last time you drank? Trying that trick again?"
He always brought up uncomfortable memories. I glared at him.
Dante's expression darkened. A warning. "Don't let me catch you chatting up other men like that again."
The music changed—a slow waltz. Dante's arm around me guided me to the center of the dance floor. "Can you dance, Elena?"
Eyes turned our way. I couldn't dance, but in a setting like this, I couldn't hesitate. I placed my hand in his palm and whispered, "You'll have to lead."
The corner of Dante's mouth twitched up. He led me forward, back, and I struggled to keep up, trying not to step on his shoes and embarrass the Moretti family completely.
I held my breath, watching his every move. He looked down at me and suddenly spoke. "I'll give you money. Enough to live anywhere you want. You could study design, build your own career instead of being stuck at the manor. An offer like this doesn't come around often. Interested?"
My body went still. The offer was everything I'd wanted before entering the manor. Saving money, secretly learning, making clothes—all because I'd been desperate for my own career instead of being trapped as a servant forever.
I looked up at Dante. His dark blue eyes were serious. I could tell this was genuine—not a test or a game.
But in the end, I shook my head. "I'm sorry. I'm already your wife."
His hand tightened around mine. But he didn't push. "All right. I respect that."
"Thank you." I looked up at him with a smile.
A commotion rippled through the crowd. I heard gasps. "God, she's gorgeous!"
Dante's gaze snapped toward it. In that instant, his body went rigid. Our dance stopped. I watched him stare at the staircase, his hand at my waist tightening until it hurt.
I followed his eyes to the second-floor corridor. A woman appeared—tall, striking. She wore a white Lombardi design, a body-hugging red dress that showed every curve. Golden curls and that face—absolutely stunning.
I didn't know who she was, but her beauty was overwhelming.
She descended the stairs slowly, every step graceful, every gesture elegant, a faint smile playing on her lips.
She walked toward us. I started to let go of Dante's hand, but he pulled away first, stepping half a step to the side, creating distance between us. Like a pretty but unimportant accessory he'd discarded.
Whispers spread through the crowd. I watched in shock as the woman stopped in front of Dante. A heavy perfume surrounded her. Every eye in the room was on the three of us.
Dante's voice shook, like he'd found something precious he'd lost.
He grabbed her shoulders.
"Valentina, what are you doing here?"
I'd never seen that expression on Dante's face. Grief, guilt, pain—all tangled together. He'd completely lost control, emotions spilling out in front of everyone.
The next second, in the center of the Lombardi ballroom, with every major family watching, right in front of me, Dante pulled Valentina into his arms and held her tight.
I stood there watching them.
In that moment, they were the leads in this story.
And me? The supporting actress who'd just reached her final scene.