Chapter 2 - The Glass Slippers Do Not Fit
Saturday night arrived with the subtlety of a freight train.
Emma stood in front of the cracked full-length mirror in her tiny Logan Square apartment, smoothing down the fabric of her dress. It was dark blue, hugging her curves just right, bought on a clearance rack three years ago for a wedding she ultimately didn't attend. It was nice, elegant even, but as she stared at her reflection, she felt a sickening knot of inadequacy twist in her stomach.
She wasn't high society. She didn't have diamonds. Her hair was styled by her own hands using a drugstore curling wand.
When a low, authoritative knock sounded at her door, her heart slammed against her ribs.
She opened it to find Vincent standing in the dim hallway. He wore a tailored charcoal tuxedo that fit him with terrifying perfection. For a second, the breath left her lungs. He looked less like a man and more like a king of the underworld stepping out of a painting.
His eyes swept over her, starting from the heels of her simple black pumps all the way up to her face. A slow, intense heat flared in his dark eyes.
"You look..." Vincent started, his voice dropping an octave.
"Don't say 'acceptable'," Emma interrupted nervously, grabbing her small silver clutch.
"I was going to say breathtaking," he finished smoothly, offering his arm.
The ride to the Moretti estate in the back of a tinted black town car was suffocatingly quiet. Vincent sat beside her, his shoulder brushing hers, radiating a steady, grounding heat. Every time she looked at him, he was staring right back, as if making sure she was actually there.
"Just stick close to me," Vincent murmured as the car slowed down, turning through sweeping wrought-iron gates guarded by men built like brick walls. "If anyone says anything stupid, let me handle it."
"I can handle my own battles, Mr. Moretti," she whispered back, lifting her chin.
"I have no doubt," he replied, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "I just prefer to handle the ones that involve bloodshed."
The car stopped before a grand limestone mansion lit by blinding crystal chandeliers. Valets in crisp uniforms rushed to open the doors. When Emma stepped out onto the gravel drive, the sheer scale of the estate hit her. Music drifted from open French doors, mixing with the low murmur of wealthy chatter.
As they walked up the broad stone steps, all eyes turned toward them.
Or rather, toward *him*. And then, instantly, toward the woman clinging to his arm.
Whispers rippled through the crowd gathered in the grand foyer. Necks craned. Eyebrows arched. Emma kept her spine straight, her smile polite, masking the way her stomach churned. She felt like an alien species dropped into a terrarium of exotic, poisonous snakes.
Vincent guided her expertly through the crowd, nodding to a few aging men in expensive suits who looked at Emma with undisguised curiosity and judgment.
"Vincent, darling!"
A voice cut through the ambient noise like a silver dagger.
A woman stepped into their path. She was stunning in a gown of spun gold, her blonde hair pinned back into an intricate chignon, dripping with real diamonds that caught the light of the chandeliers. Sabrina Hale. Emma didn't need an introduction to know who she was. Sabrina exuded the effortless, crushing confidence of someone who had never once worried about paying rent.
"Sabrina," Vincent said, his tone instantly flat, dropping the warmth he had reserved for Emma in the car.
Sabrina’s blue eyes flicked over Emma, taking in the cheap fabric of her dress, her simple makeup, and the total lack of ancestral jewelry. A patronizing, pitying smile curled the corner of Sabrina’s lips.
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"I see you brought... a guest," Sabrina said, her voice dripping with honeyed condescension. "How sweet. Did you find her outside on the way in? One of the caterers, perhaps?"
***
