Chapter 10 - "Let Them Look"
One month later.
The annual Governor’s Winter Gala at the Denver Art Museum was the most anticipated event of the social season. The museum’s soaring glass atrium was filled with eight hundred guests—senators, foreign ambassadors, corporate titans, and the remnants of the city’s chastised elite.
Near the champagne pyramid stood Daniel Miller.
Daniel looked miserable. His law practice was crumbling, his wife had spent the past hour complaining about the lack of gluten-free hors d'oeuvres, and his colleagues had spent the evening ignoring him.
Suddenly, a hush swept through the atrium.
The string quartet didn't stop playing, but the conversations died away like snuffed candles. Heads turned toward the grand marble staircase that led down from the private VIP mezzanine.
Daniel turned, glass in hand.
Coming down the stairs was Edmund Hawthorne. He was dressed in a flawless midnight-blue tuxedo, looking every inch the unchallenged sovereign of the city.
And on his arm was Rosalie Bennett.
The breath was knocked completely out of Daniel’s lungs.
Rosalie was radiant. She wore a custom-designed emerald green velvet gown with an off-the-shoulder neckline that proudly displayed her soft, sensual collarbones and the full, gorgeous curve of her figure. The dress hugged her waist and cascaded into a heavy, dramatic train behind her. Her hair was styled in an elegant, modern updo, showcasing diamond teardrop earrings that cost more than Daniel’s entire firm.
She wasn't hiding behind a clipboard. She wasn't carrying a radio wire. She didn't look down at her shoes.
She walked with the slow, effortless grace of a queen who knew that every single person in the room was breathing her air.
As they reached the bottom of the staircase, the crowd parted like the Red Sea.
Julianna Vance, standing by the bar in a plain, conservative gown—stripped of her docks and her influence—lowered her eyes as Rosalie passed, unable to hold her gaze.
Daniel, driven by some desperate, pathetic impulse of wounded pride, took two steps forward into their path.
“Rosalie?” Daniel choked out, his voice cracking. “Is that... is that really you?”
Rosalie stopped.
Beside her, Edmund paused, his hand remaining gently on her lower back, his slate-gray eyes locking onto Daniel with the lazy, indifferent contempt of a lion looking at a stray rat.
Rosalie looked at Daniel.
She looked at the man who had made her feel unlovable. The man who had told her she would be beautiful if she just changed everything about who she was. The man who had hidden her in the dark.
She felt nothing. No anger. No hurt. Only a profound, liberating pity.
“Good evening, Daniel,” Rosalie said, her voice smooth, poised, and utterly devoid of warmth. “I hope your wife enjoys the music. The quartet is exceptional tonight.”
She didn't wait for his answer. She didn't give him another second of her life.
She turned her face toward Edmund, smiling softly. “I believe you promised me a dance, Mr. Hawthorne.”
“Your wish is my command, Miss Bennett,” Edmund replied, his eyes filled with a pride so fierce it silenced every skeptic within fifty feet.
He led her onto the center of the marble floor, directly beneath the soaring glass ceiling open to the falling snow outside.
The orchestra swelled, sweeping into a majestic waltz.
As Edmund drew her close, his hand resting securely against the small of her back, Rosalie looked around the atrium.
Eight hundred of the most powerful people in the state were staring at them. Whispering. Documenting the moment.
Rosalie didn't shrink. She didn't pull herself inward. She held Edmund’s gaze, her head held high, letting the brilliance of the lights wash over every inch of her.
“They’re looking at us,” she whispered, her lips curving into a radiant, triumphant smile.
May you like
Edmund pulled her closer, his voice carrying the final, unshakeable truth of her new life.
“Let them look, my queen. Let them see what a real woman looks like.”
