The invitation arrived the next morning.
Cream-colored cardstock. Embossed lettering. Impeccable taste.
A charity gala.
Hosted by The Harrington Foundation.
I read it twice, then a third time, before lifting my eyes to Luca.
"They're bold," I said.
"They're deliberate," he corrected. "Harrington doesn't host events. He hosts statements."
The Harringtons were clean. Untouchable. Old money that survived every criminal purge by never getting its hands dirty. If someone wanted to test my reputation publicly, this was the perfect stage.
"They want to see if I'll show up," I said.
"They want to see if you'll crack," Luca replied.
I placed the invitation on the table and smiled. "Then we won't disappoint them."
Luca's gaze sharpened. "You're going."
"Yes."
"With cameras. Journalists. Politicians."
"Yes."
"And people who would love to see you stumble."
"Yes," I repeated calmly. "Which is why I need to stand."
He studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "Then we control every detail."
The preparations were meticulous. The dress was chosen for restraint, not spectacle black silk, clean lines, nothing loud. My hair was swept back, exposing my face fully. No armor. No hiding.
When we arrived at the venue, the air shifted.
I felt it immediately the pause, the subtle recalibration. Conversations faltered. Eyes turned.
Some curious. Some hostile. Some calculating.
I took Luca's arm, not for support, but for alignment.
Inside, crystal chandeliers bathed the room in soft gold. Music hummed. Laughter chimed. Power wore perfume and smiles.
"There," Luca murmured.
Across the room stood Eleanor Harrington.
Tall. Silver-haired. Immaculate.
Her smile widened when she saw us.
"Elena De Santis," she said warmly as she approached. "How wonderful to finally meet you."
Her eyes flicked briefly professionally to my stomach.
I smiled back. "Thank you for the invitation. It's a beautiful event."
"Charity brings people together," she said lightly. "Especially in… complicated times."
Translation: Let's see how you behave under pressure.
She turned to Luca. "You've been quiet lately."
"Busy," he replied.
"Yes," she said. "So I hear."
She excused herself with practiced grace, leaving behind a wake of curiosity.
Almost immediately, we were surrounded.
Questions disguised as compliments.
"You look radiant."
"You're handling everything so well."
"Must be overwhelming, marrying into such responsibility."
I answered them all the same way calm, measured, unreactive.
Then came the first real strike.
A woman stepped forward mid-thirties, perfect posture, a journalist's smile.
"Elena," she said sweetly. "Some people are concerned your rise has been… sudden."
I met her gaze. "Is that a question?"
She laughed lightly. "Of course not. Just public curiosity."
"Public curiosity often hides private agendas," I replied evenly. "But I appreciate concern."
Her smile tightened.
"Do you feel prepared," she pressed, "to represent such influence?"
I tilted my head slightly. "Influence isn't something you're born into. It's something you learn to carry responsibly."
A pause.
Then murmurs.
The journalist nodded stiffly and retreated.
Luca leaned in. "You're doing well."
"I know," I said softly.
But the real attack came later.
During the speech.
Eleanor Harrington took the stage, voice smooth, commanding. She spoke about unity. About ethics. About responsibility.
Then casually she added,
"In times like these, leadership must be transparent. Especially when power changes hands unexpectedly."
The room stilled.
All eyes turned toward me.
The silence pressed in, waiting for my reaction.
Luca's hand tightened on mine.
I let the moment breathe.
Then I raised my glass.
Eleanor faltered just slightly as I stood.
"I agree," I said clearly. "Transparency matters."
The audience shifted.
"So does courage," I continued. "It's easy to support ethics when they cost nothing. Harder when they require choice."
I met Eleanor's gaze.
"My life changed quickly," I said. "Not because I chased power but because power found me. And when it did, I chose responsibility over fear."
A ripple moved through the room.
"I won't apologize for surviving," I finished. "And I won't pretend I don't belong where I stand."
Silence.
Then applause.
Not thunderous. But real.
Eleanor smiled again, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"Well said," she replied. "Very… composed."
Translation: You surprised me.
The rest of the night passed carefully. Conversations softened. Lines shifted. I felt the room recalibrate around me, the way water adjusts to a new current.
On the drive home, Luca finally spoke.
"You didn't just survive," he said. "You redirected them."
"They wanted to define me," I replied. "I refused."
He glanced at me, something like pride and something deeper in his eyes.
When we arrived home, Marcus was waiting.
"Sir," he said. "There's been movement."
"What kind?" Luca asked.
"Financial," Marcus replied. "Three accounts unfroze themselves after the gala."
I frowned. "That's not retaliation."
"No," Marcus said grimly. "That's repositioning."
Luca's phone buzzed.
One message.
Unknown sender.
You handled yourself well.
Let's see how you handle loss.
My hand moved instinctively to my stomach.
"Someone's escalating," I said quietly.
"Yes," Luca replied. "And this time, they're not aiming at your reputation."
"Then what?" I asked.
He met my eyes.
"Your sense of control."
Outside, the city glittered indifferent, endless.
And somewhere within it, an enemy smiled, already setting a trap that couldn't be dismantled with words alone.