Chapter 17 - The Red Carpet of Wolves
The grand facade of the Metropolitan Historical Society gleamed under thousands of flashbulbs as black limousines lined up along Fifth Avenue. Rain had washed the city clean, leaving the pavement glistening like liquid obsidian.
A barrage of paparazzi and high-society reporters stood behind velvet ropes, their voices rising in an deafening roar as the Vale armored Maybach pulled up to the red carpet.
"Look! It’s Adrian Vale and Elena Vance!"
"Is it true that the Vance family was involved in the plane crash?"
"Elena, look over here! Did your uncle really survive?"
"Adrian, are you stepping down from the board?"
The chauffeur opened the door. I stepped out first, and a collective gasp rippled through the gathered crowd.
I wore an emerald silk gown that hugged my curves like liquid armor, backless and trailing behind me in a wave of dark elegance. Around my neck hung the Vale family heirloom: the Dragon’s Eye emerald, gleaming with a deep, predatory fire. My makeup was striking—smoky eyes, crimson lips—but I maintained an expression of quiet, pale vulnerability, precisely as Adrian and I had rehearsed.
Then, Adrian stepped out.
He leaned heavily on his silver-tipped cane, his left leg dragging slightly as he reached for my arm. His charcoal-black tuxedo was tailored to perfection, but he kept his shoulders hunched, his jaw tight, projecting an aura of a proud man pushed to the brink of physical and emotional collapse.
"Stay close, Elena," he whispered under his breath, though his lips barely moved.
"I'm not going anywhere," I murmured back, placing my hand gently over his forearm, offering him support as cameras flashed relentlessly around us.
We walked up the sweeping marble staircase into the Grand Hall. The venue was breathtaking—soaring gilded ceilings, Corinthian columns draped in ivy and white roses, and an orchestra playing a somber Vivaldi concerto. Over five hundred of the world's most powerful elites—senators, foreign ambassadors, tech titans, and old-money heiresses—turned their heads as we entered.
The whispers began instantly.
*"Look at them... Adrian looks terrible. The rumors must be true."*
*"They say Julian Vance has returned from the dead with proof that Thomas Vance engineered the crash."*
*"If that's true, Elena is marrying the man her family tried to kill! How scandalous!"*
I held my head high, ignoring the venomous glances from women who had once mocked me and men who had tried to buy me. Adrian’s hand remained steady under mine, his fingers secretly tapping out a steady rhythm against my arm: a countdown.
Suddenly, the music stopped.
The heavy oak double doors at the far end of the hall swung open with a resounding boom that echoed off the high ceilings.
The room fell dead silent.
Walking through the doors, flanked by four towering private security guards in unmarked black suits, was Julian Vance.
He looked magnificent and monstrous all at once. Dressed in a bespoke midnight-blue velvet tuxedo, his silver hair was slicked back with military precision. The black silk eyepatch across his left eye gave his aristocratic face a chilling, piratical edge. On his right hand, the silver double-headed serpent ring caught the light of the crystal chandeliers, sparkling like venom.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Julian’s voice rang out, deep, resonant, and overflowing with theatrical charm. "Forgive my intrusion. But I could hardly miss the social event of the century... especially when my dear niece is about to make the biggest mistake of her life."
Gasps erupted across the room. Several socialites covered their mouths in shock.
Julian smiled, his single gray eye locking onto me with the predatory amusement of a hawk observing a cornered rabbit.
May you like
"Hello, Elena," Julian said softly, stepping down the marble steps toward us. "Uncle Julian has come home."
***