Chapter 3 - The Arrival at the Grand Ballroom
The black, armored Maybach glided through the wrought-iron gates of the Oak Brook Country Club like a shadow across the manicured lawns.
The sun was setting behind the treeline, casting long, bloody streaks of crimson and gold across the private golf course.
I looked out the heavily tinted window and felt my chest tighten.
A dozen familiar luxury sedans were already parked in the circular driveway—my uncle’s BMW, my father’s pristine Lexus, and Derek’s leased silver Mercedes.
My mother had selected this venue specifically to impress her future son-in-law’s wealthy corporate family.
Everything about the country club screamed old-money exclusion: the towering stone columns, the white-gloved valets, the manicured topiaries.
“Breathe, Sadi,” Roman’s deep voice cut through the thumping rhythm of my racing pulse.
I turned to look at him.
He was sitting comfortably against the hand-stitched leather, casually adjusting the platinum cufflinks at his wrists.
He looked completely unbothered, as if walking into a hostile family ambush was no more stressful than signing a shipping manifest.
“My mother has an eye for weakness, Roman,” I warned, my fingers digging into the emerald fabric on my lap.
“The moment she sees me, she’s going to make a comment about my weight, my dress, or why I dared to show up late.”
Roman turned his head, his dark eyes leveling a piercing look at me.
“Your mother has power over you only because you spent twenty-eight years seeking her approval.”
He reached across the console, his large, warm hand covering my cold, trembling fingers.
“Tonight, you do not seek her approval. You don’t even acknowledge her authority.”
His grip tightened gently, offering a solid anchor in the middle of my rising panic.
“Remember who you are walking in with. If anyone in that room disrespects you, they are disrespecting me.”
The chauffeur opened the heavy passenger door, letting in the cool autumn breeze and the distant sound of jazz music from the terrace.
Roman stepped out first.
He stood tall beside the car, buttoning his jacket with an effortless grace that immediately drew the eyes of three country club members chatting near the valet stand.
Then, he turned back to the Maybach and extended his hand to me.
I took a deep breath, lifted my chin exactly as Elena had taught me, and placed my hand in his.
When I stepped out of the vehicle onto the red carpet, heads turned.
The emerald green satin shimmered under the golden exterior sconces.
The diamonds around my neck captured the evening light, throwing brilliant fractures of white fire against my skin.
For the first time in my life, I didn't hunch my shoulders.
I didn't look down at the ground to see if someone was judging my size.
I stood tall, my curves framed in royal green, leaning slightly into the solid, immovable frame of Chicago’s most dangerous man.
Roman tucked my hand into the crook of his elbow, pressing my fingers close against his ribs.
“Head up, Little Bird,” he whispered near my ear, a moniker that made an unexpected warmth bloom in my chest.
“Let them look.”
We walked through the heavy oak double doors into the grand chandelier foyer.
The rehearsal dinner was taking place in the Windsor Ballroom, an opulent space filled with round tables draped in ivory linens and towering white floral centerpieces.
Around seventy guests were mingling near the open bar, champagne flutes in hand, laughing loudly over the soft piano music.
Near the center of the room stood my mother, Margaret Miller.
She was wearing a pastel lavender shift dress that was tailored to minimize any appearance of flesh, looking as pristine and uptight as she had my entire childhood.
Beside her stood my sister Chloe, glowing in a white designer cocktail dress, smiling radiantly as guests complimented her diamond tennis bracelet.
And standing just a few feet away, laughing with my father and holding a tumbler of scotch, was Derek Vance.
Derek looked exactly the same: slicked-back blonde hair, an expensive designer watch peeking from his cuff, and an arrogant smirk that suggested he owned every room he entered.
Clinging to his free arm was his fiancée, Amber, a woman who looked like she had walked straight out of a luxury fitness catalog.
I took a single step forward, and my heels clicked sharply against the polished parquet floor.
The sharp sound cut through the low hum of conversation.
My mother was the first to turn around.
Her smile was already fading into an irritated scowl, clearly prepared to scold me for being late or for causing a scene.
“Sadi, where on earth have you been? The caterer already started the salad course—”
The words died instantly in her throat.
Her jaw went completely slack.
Her eyes traveled from my styled, gleaming hair down the breathtaking emerald gown that framed my full hips, stopping dead on the blinding platinum necklace resting against my collarbones.
The champagne glass in her hand tilted dangerously, nearly spilling onto the Persian carpet.
Beside her, Chloe’s laughter abruptly ceased.
Her eyes widened in sheer disbelief, her gaze locking onto the massive diamond solitaire shining on my left hand.
The entire perimeter of the Windsor Ballroom slowly grew quiet as conversation ground to a dead halt.
Then, Derek turned around.
His arrogant, self-satisfied smile froze, then dissolved into pure, unadulterated shock.
He stared at me as if I were a ghost risen from a past he thought he had completely buried.
His eyes scanned the curve of my waist, the regal lift of my head, and the radiant confidence radiating from my face.
For two full years, Derek had convinced himself that I was a broken, unlovable mess who would spend the rest of my days crying over his memory in a dusty maid uniform.
Now, I was standing in front of him looking like European royalty.
And then Derek’s eyes drifted upward from my shoulder to the man towering beside me.
All the color instantly drained from Derek’s face.
His skin turned a sickly shade of ash gray.
The scotch tumbler in his hand trembled so violently the ice cubes rattled against the glass like dice in a cup.
He recognized Roman Rossi.
Every corporate lawyer in the Midwest knew that face.
They knew the man who controlled forty percent of the freight corridors through the Great Lakes.
They knew the man whose signature could fund a ten-million-dollar legal retainer or destroy an entire firm overnight.
Roman didn't smile.
He didn't acknowledge the gaping stares of the high-society guests.
He simply turned his head toward me, lowered his gaze with tender, possessive focus, and whispered loud enough for the nearest tables to hear:
May you like
“Which one of these pathetic tables did your mother relegate you to, darling?”
The silence in the grand ballroom was absolute.
