Chapter 7: The Gala's Glare
The Manhattan skyline glittered through the hospital's windows as Elena Harper finished her last patient chart of the day, the soft glow of her laptop screen casting shadows across her office. It was Saturday evening, and the city was alive with its usual weekend frenzy, but Elena's mind was elsewhere—caught between Alexander's promise at Grounded Coffee and the news alert about tonight's Lang family charity gala. He hadn't mentioned it during their coffee date, hadn't warned her he'd be stepping back into Victoria Lang's orbit so soon after swearing transparency. The omission stung, a crack in the fragile trust they'd begun to rebuild.
She closed her laptop, her fingers lingering on the edge of her desk where Alexander's note remained locked away. I'm all in, Elena. His words from last night echoed, but the gala loomed like a test he hadn't prepared her for. She'd spent the day wrestling with whether to confront him or let it slide, her heart torn between hope and the scars of past betrayals. Marisol's advice—Make him work for it—rang in her ears, but so did Charlotte Weston's warning: Fight for what you want.
Elena's phone buzzed, pulling her from her thoughts. A text from Marisol: You okay? Saw the gala thing online. Want me to crash it with you? I got a dress and a bad attitude. Elena smiled, the tension easing slightly. Marisol's loyalty was a lifeline, but crashing a Lang gala was a bad idea—too much Weston drama, too many cameras. She typed back: Thanks, but I'm good. Staying out of it. Call you later.
She stood, grabbing her coat and bag, her decision made. She wouldn't confront Alexander tonight, not with the Montauk weekend a week away. If he was serious about rebuilding, he'd tell her about the gala himself—before the tabloids did. For now, she'd focus on herself, on the life she was carving out beyond the Weston name.
The subway ride to Brooklyn was crowded, the car filled with weekend revelers and the faint strum of a busker's guitar. Elena leaned against a pole, her thoughts drifting to the Montauk inn she'd booked—a quiet seaside retreat with weathered shingles and ocean views, far from the city's noise. She'd chosen it for its simplicity, a place where she and Alexander could be just Elena and Alex, not the polished facades of Dr. Harper and the Weston heir. But the gala news gnawed at her, a reminder that his world was never far away.
Marisol's brownstone was a welcome refuge, its warmth wrapping around her as she stepped inside. The smell of roasted vegetables and garlic greeted her, and Marisol was in the kitchen, swaying to a reggaeton playlist while stirring a pot of chili. "You're late," she called, glancing over her shoulder. "Thought you got lost in the OR again."
"Paperwork," Elena said, dropping her bag by the door. She slipped off her shoes and joined Marisol at the counter, stealing a carrot stick from a cutting board. "What's this? You cooking for a crowd?"
"Just us," Marisol said, grinning. "But I'm stress-cooking. That gala's got me twitchy. You sure you don't want to storm the castle? I'd look hot in sequins."
Elena laughed, the sound easing the knot in her chest. "Tempting, but no. I'm not playing the jealous wife chasing him through ballrooms. If he's serious, he'll come clean about it."
Marisol raised an eyebrow, ladling chili into bowls. "And if he doesn't?"
"Then Montauk's off," Elena said, her voice firm despite the ache in her heart. "I meant what I said, Marisol. All or nothing."
Marisol nodded, passing her a bowl. "That's my girl. Now, eat. You're gonna need strength to deal with whatever Weston drama's coming."
Dinner was a comfort, the chili spicy and grounding, the conversation light—Marisol's tales of hospital gossip, Elena's stories of quirky patients. But as they cleared the dishes, Elena's phone buzzed with another news alert, the headline like a punch: Alexander Weston Shines at Lang Charity Gala—Victoria Lang at His Side. Her fingers froze on the dish towel, her breath catching as she opened the article. The photo showed Alexander in a tuxedo, his smile polished, Victoria stunning in a silver gown, her hand resting lightly on his arm. The caption speculated about their "close partnership," with no mention of the merger.
Marisol peered over her shoulder, her expression darkening. "That son of a—okay, we're crashing it. I'm grabbing my heels."
"No," Elena said, her voice sharp as she set the phone down. Her heart pounded, but she forced herself to breathe, to think. "He said it's business. Maybe it is. But he should've told me."
Marisol crossed her arms. "Business, my ass. That's a red carpet, not a boardroom. You gonna call him out?"
"Not tonight," Elena said, her mind racing. "I'm giving him a chance to explain. Tomorrow. If he doesn't, I'm done."
Marisol studied her, then nodded. "Your call. But I'm here if you need me to slash his tires."
Elena managed a weak smile. "Noted."
Sleep was elusive that night, the brownstone's quiet amplifying her thoughts. She lay on Marisol's guest bed, the city's hum a faint backdrop, Alexander's note under her pillow like a talisman. She didn't read it again—she didn't need to. The words were etched in her mind, but they felt hollow now, overshadowed by Victoria's hand on his arm. At 1 a.m., unable to stand it, she grabbed her phone and texted him: Saw the gala photos. We need to talk. Tomorrow, 10 a.m., my office. Short, direct, no room for misinterpretation.
His reply came within minutes: I'll be there. It's not what it looks like, Elena. I swear. The words were familiar, echoing his promises at The Smith, but they carried less weight now. She didn't respond, setting the phone face-down and staring at the ceiling until exhaustion pulled her under.
Sunday morning dawned gray, a drizzle painting the city in muted tones. Elena arrived at the hospital early, her office a sanctuary of order amidst her chaotic thoughts. She wore her white coat like armor, her auburn hair pulled into a tight bun, her face bare of makeup except for a swipe of lip gloss. The note was still in her drawer, but she didn't touch it, focusing instead on patient charts to ground herself.
At 10:03, Alexander knocked, his silhouette filling the doorway. He looked less polished than the gala photos, his navy coat damp from the rain, his hair slightly mussed. His eyes were tired, shadowed, but they locked onto hers with an intensity that made her heart lurch.
"Elena," he said, stepping inside and closing the door. "I'm sorry you saw that before I could explain."
She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, her voice cool. "You had all week to mention the gala, Alex. You didn't. Instead, I'm blindsided by photos of you and Victoria, again. Tell me why I shouldn't walk away right now."
He flinched, but didn't look away. "You're right. I should've told you. The gala was a last-minute ask—my father needed me there to close the merger deal. Victoria's family hosted, so she was part of it. That photo—her hand on my arm—was a posed shot for the press. It meant nothing."
"Nothing?" Elena's laugh was sharp, cutting through the room. "You keep saying that, but it doesn't feel like nothing. It feels like I'm fighting for a marriage you're only half in."
He stepped closer, his hands in his pockets, his voice low. "I'm all in, Elena. I swear it. The merger's done—signed last night. Victoria's out of the picture now, professionally and otherwise. I didn't tell you about the gala because I didn't want to drag you into another Weston mess. I thought I was protecting you."
"Protecting me?" She stood, her chair scraping against the floor. "You don't protect me by hiding things, Alex. You protect me by being honest, by showing up as my husband, not some untouchable CEO. I can't keep doing this—guessing, waiting, hoping you'll choose me over your world."
He closed the distance, stopping just short of her desk, his eyes raw with something she hadn't seen in years—regret, maybe, or desperation. "I'm choosing you now, Elena. I know I've screwed up—three years of it. But Montauk, next weekend, that's me choosing you. No galas, no mergers, just us. Please, give me that chance."
Her throat tightened, his words a mirror to the note that had started this fragile hope. She wanted to believe him, wanted to bridge the gap, but the photos, the silences, the years of neglect weighed heavy. "I'm going to Montauk," she said finally, her voice steady. "But this is your last shot, Alex. One more secret, one more photo, and I'm gone. For good."
He nodded, his jaw tight. "No more secrets. I promise."
She held his gaze, searching for the lie, but all she saw was a man fighting to keep her. "I have patients," she said, breaking the moment. "I'll see you in Montauk. Don't make me regret this."
He lingered for a second, as if wanting to say more, then nodded and left, the door clicking shut behind him. Elena sank into her chair, her heart pounding. The gala photo still burned in her mind, but his explanation held water—just enough to keep her from walking away. Montauk was a week away, a crucible for their marriage. She didn't know if it would save them or break them, but she was ready to find out.
Back at Marisol's that evening, Elena recounted the confrontation over takeout pizza, the brownstone's warmth a balm after the hospital's sterile chill. Marisol listened, her expression a mix of skepticism and grudging respect. "He's got balls, showing up after that photo," she said, biting into a slice. "You believe him about the merger?"
"Maybe," Elena said, picking at her crust. "It checks out, but it's not just the gala. It's the pattern—him deciding what I can handle, keeping me in the dark. I need him to stop playing the protector and start being my partner."
Marisol nodded, her eyes softening. "You're giving him a shot, but you're not blind. That's strength, Elena. Montauk's gonna be the real test. You got a plan?"
"Survive it," Elena said with a wry smile. "And make him talk. Really talk. No Weston filter."
Marisol raised her soda can in a toast. "To surviving. And to making that man grovel."
Elena clinked her water bottle against it, a spark of determination igniting. The gala had shaken her, but it hadn't broken her. Montauk was coming, and with it, a chance to see if Alexander Weston was worth the fight—or if she was better off alone.