Chapter 8 - The Grand Opening on Michigan Avenue
Six months later, the spring sun broke over Chicago in a brilliant wash of gold and steel, turning the skyline into a towering monument of glass and ambition.
The grand ballroom of the Drake Hotel was packed with city officials, municipal developers, and corporate executives attending the annual Gallow Foundation Gala—a charity event dedicated to funding rehabilitation and vocational training centers for underprivileged youth across the city.
The walls were adorned with fresh spring flowers, string quartets played softly from the balcony, and the atmosphere was electric with the energy of a new era.
I stood near the edge of the grand ballroom, wearing a breathtaking gown of midnight-blue silk that swept gracefully across the marble floor—not the black work slacks of the Onyx Room, but a dress that declared, without a single spoken word, that I belonged in this room just as much as anyone else.
Beside me stood Roman.
He wore a bespoke charcoal-gray suit—the Loro Piana wool, tailored to absolute perfection—with a silver silk tie that caught the crystal chandelier light. One hand rested securely and possessively at my waist, his thumb tracing the smooth skin just above my hip.
Across the room, Arthur—looking nervous and sweating through his collar—raised his champagne flute toward us from a distance, offering a frantic, apologetic wave before quickly retreating toward the bar.
I burst out laughing, raising my own glass in silent amusement.
“You still terrify him, you know,” I murmured, leaning back slightly against Roman’s solid, warm shoulder.
“Arthur is a survivor,” Roman replied smoothly, his lips brushing against the edge of my ear. “He knows that anyone who crosses my CFO answers directly to me.”
“And what does your CFO say about your current investment strategy?” I asked, turning my head to look up into his dark, tired eyes—eyes that were no longer hollow, but filled with a quiet, unshakeable peace.
May you like
Roman smiled—a real, unfiltered smile that reached all the way to his soul.
“My CFO says we’re currently operating in the black,” he whispered, his arm tightening around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest as the orchestra swelled into a sweeping, romantic waltz. “And that the balance sheet has never looked better.”
