Chapter 7 - MASQUERADE OF POWER
The annual Asheford Winter Gala was the premier social event of the year, held at the historic Grand Northern Hotel. The ballroom was a sea of crystal chandeliers, flowing champagne, tuxedos, and silk ballgowns. The very men who had spat upon Eloise Crawford were in attendance: Neil Prescott, the snobbish restaurant manager whose family sat on the chamber of commerce; Warren Holt, the hotel director; and dozens of high-society figures who had laughed at her behind closed doors.
Neil Prescott was sipping champagne near the grand marble staircase, laughing with local politicians.
"I hear Moretti eradicated the Petrov faction in one night," Neil muttered, adjusting his cufflink. "The man is an animal. We need the governor to bring in the National Guard before he buys out our entire downtown district."
Suddenly, the heavy double oak doors of the ballroom swung wide.
The four-piece orchestra faltered. The chatter in the hall died in a wave of gasps and dropped glasses.
Entering the ballroom was Dante Moretti. He looked lethal and magnificent in a custom midnight-black tuxedo, an onyx tie pin catching the light of the chandeliers.
And on his arm was Eloise Crawford.
The room collectively lost its breath.
Eloise was breathtaking. She wore an off-the-shoulder gown of deep burgundy silk that hugged her figure with aristocratic elegance before pooling at the marble floor. Her neck and left shoulder were completely bare. The jagged burn scar—once a source of mocking derision—now looked like a strike of liquid silver across porcelain skin, framed by a diamond choker that cost more than the entire hotel.
She walked with an effortless, regal grace, her head held high, fearless and radiant under the gaze of two hundred stunned elites.
Dante escorted her straight down the center aisle of the ballroom, parting the crowd like the Red Sea. Every pair of eyes was glued to them.
Neil Prescott stood frozen near the staircase, his champagne glass shaking so hard the crystal chattered. Eloise stopped right in front of him.
Neil swallowed hard, the sweat beading on his forehead. "M-Miss Crawford..."
Eloise looked at him, her gaze serene, completely devoid of bitterness. "Good evening, Mr. Prescott. Does my presentation meet your standards tonight?"
Neil’s knees practically buckled under the weight of Dante’s icy stare from behind her. "I... I was mistaken, ma'am. Terribly mistaken."
Dante stepped forward, leaning down slightly until his voice rumbled in Neil's ear, loud enough for twenty nearby socialites to hear.
"You told her she was a stain on a linen napkin, Prescott," Dante murmured, his voice laced with venom. "Tomorrow morning, my bank forecloses on your restaurant's commercial lease. You have until noon to pack your artisanal wine glasses and get out of my town."
Neil went as white as a corpse, nodding frantically before fleeing the floor in utter humiliation.
Eloise turned to Dante, a small, genuine smile curving her lips. "You didn't have to ruin his restaurant."
May you like
Dante took her hand, lifting her knuckles to his lips in front of the entire assembly. "He insulted an angel, Eloise. He got off easy."
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