Chapter 4 - The Humiliation at Table Twelve
My mother stood frozen for three full seconds before her social instincts violently kicked back in.
She forced a tight, artificial smile onto her face, smoothing down the front of her pastel dress as she scurried across the parquet floor toward us.
Her eyes darted frantically between my emerald gown, the diamonds around my throat, and the imposing figure of Roman Rossi.
“Sadi! Darling!” she exclaimed, her voice pitched an octave higher than normal.
She reached out to air-kiss both of my cheeks, an affectionate gesture she had not performed since I was ten years old.
“You look… well, you look astonishing! We were beginning to think you wouldn't make it!”
I didn't lean into her embrace.
I stayed completely upright, feeling the hard line of Roman’s arm beneath my fingers.
“Traffic on the expressway was heavy, Mother,” I said, keeping my tone perfectly polite and completely devoid of warmth.
“And getting ready took a bit longer than usual.”
Chloe hurried over to join our mother, her fiancé Julian trailing closely behind her looking thoroughly perplexed.
Chloe’s eyes were practically glued to my left hand, which was casually resting on Roman’s dark sleeve.
“Sadi…” Chloe breathed, her voice tight with a strange mixture of jealousy and confusion.
“Where did you get that dress? Is that… is that real silk?”
Before I could formulate an answer, Roman stepped slightly forward, commanding the space between us with effortless dominance.
“Bespoke Milanese satin,” Roman said smoothly, his baritone voice carrying effortlessly across the quiet room.
“Created specifically for my Sadi. Off-the-rack garments do not do justice to a silhouette of such rare elegance.”
My heart skipped a beat at the phrase my Sadi.
He spoke with such absolute conviction that even I momentarily forgot we had finalized this arrangement over a dirty cast-iron skillet eight hours ago.
Chloe flinched as if she had been slapped.
All her life, Chloe had been the daughter praised for her petite figure, while our mother constantly lamented that I was too large, too broad, too much.
To hear a man of Roman’s stature openly describe my body as an object of rare elegance shattered my sister’s lifelong monopoly on beauty.
My mother quickly cleared her throat, desperate to regain control of the conversation.
“And… who might your handsome companion be, Sadi? You didn't give us a name for the place card.”
Derek Vance had by now crossed the floor, compelled by an irresistible mix of professional dread and raw male disbelief.
He stopped three paces away, his fiancée Amber trailing behind him looking thoroughly irritated by his sudden erratic behavior.
“Mr. Rossi,” Derek gasped out, extending a clammy, shaking right hand.
“I—I had no idea you would be attending this evening. I’m Derek Vance, with Sterling, Croft & Associates. We handle your maritime zoning filings—”
Roman didn't even look at Derek’s outstretched hand.
He kept his hands tucked loosely in the pockets of his tailored slacks, completely ignoring the young attorney's existence.
The snub was so public, so cold, and so utterly humiliating that Derek’s hand hung in the air for an excruciating five seconds before he sheepishly dropped it back to his side.
“Margaret,” Roman addressed my mother, his dark eyes fixing upon her like a judge passing a final sentence.
“You mentioned something in your text message last night about seating arrangements.”
My mother’s face instantly flushed crimson with sheer panic.
She remembered every single cruel word she had typed into her phone while sitting in her comfortable living room.
“Oh, that! That was simply a misunderstanding, Mr. Rossi!” she stuttered, waving her hands dismissively.
“We had an unexpected influx of guests, and we were shuffling the seating charts at the last minute—”
“You put my date at table twelve,” Roman stated, his voice dropping into a deadly, quiet register that made the hair on my arms stand up.
“Beside the swinging doors of the kitchen.”
Several nearby guests, including the senior partners from Julian’s law firm, exchanged wide-eyed glances.
The implication was crystal clear: Margaret Miller had attempted to hide her own daughter beside the trash bins while entertaining corporate elites.
“I—I thought Sadi would prefer a quieter spot!” my mother pleaded, her composure crumbling entirely under his stare.
“She has always been so shy, so uncomfortable in crowded spaces—”
“She is uncomfortable when she is surrounded by cowards who treat her like an inconvenience,” Roman cut in ruthlessly.
He turned his gaze toward Derek Vance, who looked ready to melt into the floorboards.
“And table four seems to be occupied by people who severely overestimate their own value.”
Derek swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing erratically.
“Mr. Rossi, please, Sadi and I have a history, but that was years ago—”
“You have no history with her, Vance,” Roman said with lethal precision.
“You are merely a brief, regrettable mistake she made before she met a man capable of appreciating what he possessed.”
Roman looked down at me, his cold expression softening into something that looked dangerously close to genuine adoration.
He reached up and gently tucked a stray curl of dark hair behind my ear, his thumb brushing against my cheekbone.
“Come, Sadi. The air near these people is stale.”
He turned toward the banquet manager, who had been hovering near the doorway in terror since the moment the Maybach pulled into the circle.
“Manager,” Roman called out softly.
The manager practically sprinted across the floor, bowing slightly at the waist.
“Yes, Mr. Rossi! How may I assist you this evening, sir?”
“Clear the private terrace overlooking the gardens,” Roman ordered, not bothering to look at the man.
“Set a private table for two with vintage Dom Pérignon and your finest cuts of prime rib.”
“Immediately, Mr. Rossi! Right away!”
Roman looked back at my mother, whose mouth was opening and closing like a fish stranded on dry sand.
“You may keep table twelve for your catering staff, Margaret. My fiancée and I will be dining in private.”
Fiancée.
The word exploded across the Windsor Ballroom like a bomb.
Chloe let out a strangled gasp, her hands flying to her mouth.
May you like
Derek looked as if someone had physically driven a dagger into his ribs, his eyes darting to the five-carat diamond shining on my finger.
Before anyone could utter another word, Roman took my hand, laced his strong fingers through mine, and led me past my stunned, speechless family toward the French doors leading to the moonlit terrace.
