Chapter 8 - Dressed In Diamonds And Wrapped In Iron Armor
The night of the Grand Plaza Gala arrived with the force of a tidal wave.
Clara and a team of high-end stylists spent three hours preparing me inside the penthouse. They styled my dark hair into an elegant chignon, applied soft, radiant makeup that enhanced my natural features without hiding a thing, and dressed me in a bespoke emerald-green silk gown that cascaded to the floor like liquid jade.
The high neckline and long, fitted sleeves elegantly honored my comfort, while the tailored silhouette hugged my curves with regal sophistication.
When I stepped into the grand living room, Ronan was waiting, dressed in an impeccable black tuxedo with a diamond-studded watch on his wrist.
He stopped breathing for three full seconds when he saw me.
“Sadie,” he breathed, his voice rough with genuine awe. “You look... magnificent.”
He opened a black velvet jewelry box resting on the console table. Inside lay a breathtaking necklace made of platinum and teardrop-cut emeralds, surrounded by brilliant pavé diamonds.
“This was my mother’s,” Ronan said softly, stepping behind me to fasten the heavy, glittering necklace around my throat. His warm fingers brushed the nape of my neck, sending a delicious shiver straight down my spine. “She was a queen. Tonight, you wear her crown.”
When we arrived at the Grand Plaza Hotel, a sea of paparazzi flashes and news cameras exploded outside the entrance.
Ronan stepped out of the armored Maybach first, offering his hand to assist me. As my high heels hit the red carpet, I linked my arm securely through his.
The whispers began instantly, rippling through the crowd like wildfire.
“Who is she?”
“Ronan Hayes hasn't brought a date to a public event in seven years!”
“Look at the emeralds... that’s the Hayes heirloom!”
Inside the grand ballroom, hundreds of high-society elites, politicians, and industrial tycoons turned their heads as we entered. Ronan walked with the poise of an undefeated monarch, his hand resting firmly over mine, guiding me through the opulent crowd.
Across the room, standing near the marble bar surrounded by four armed bodyguards, was Dominic Moretti—a heavyset, scarred man in his late fifties with cold, ruthless eyes.
When Moretti’s gaze landed on me, his glass paused halfway to his lips. He recognized me from Carl’s descriptions.
Then his eyes moved to Ronan Hayes.
Ronan met Moretti’s stare across the crowded ballroom. He didn't make a threat. He didn't draw a weapon. He simply raised his champagne flute in a slow, mocking salute, his gray eyes radiating pure, unadulterated death.
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Dominic Moretti went visibly pale. He slowly lowered his glass, turned to his bodyguards, and muttered an urgent command before turning on his heel and retreating into the private VIP lounge.
The message had been delivered without a single word spoken: Sadie Vance was completely untouchable.
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