Chapter 2 - The Golden Invitation
The next morning,
the sun filtered through the dusty windows of my small apartment,
casting long shadows over the stacks of art books and canvas sketches.
The events of the gala felt like a fever dream,
a hallucination brought on by cheap champagne and the suffocating weight of Vanessa’s dress.
I spent hours at the gallery,
polishing frames and organizing invoices for a business that was slowly drowning in a sea of rising rent.
My phone remained silent,
and I told myself that Carter Battalia had forgotten the quiet girl on the balcony as soon as the sun rose.
But at noon,
a black sedan pulled up to the curb,
and the man in the gray suit from the balcony stepped out,
holding a box wrapped in silver paper.
He entered the gallery with a quiet authority that made the other patrons stop and stare in confusion.
“Ms.
Diana,”
he said,
his voice perfectly neutral as he placed the box on my desk.
“Mr.
Battalia requests your presence for dinner this evening at eight.”
I looked at the box,
then back at the man whose face remained an unreadable mask of professional duty.
“And if I say no?”
I asked,
though the curiosity in my gut was already winning the argument against my common sense.
“He said you might say that,”
the man replied,
a ghost of a smile touching his lips.
“He also said to tell you that the red dress has been incinerated,
as it was an insult to your complexion.”
I opened the box,
and my breath caught in my throat as I saw a gown made of midnight-blue silk,
soft as a cloud and deep as the ocean.
There was no card,
no signature,
just the scent of sandalwood and expensive tobacco that I had smelled on the balcony.
I took the gown home,
hanging it against the door of my closet where it seemed to glow with its own inner light.
Vanessa called me three times that afternoon,
her voice shrill with questions about why a Battalia car had been seen at my workplace.
I didn't answer,
choosing instead to wash the smell of the gallery from my hair and step into the blue silk.
The dress fit me perfectly,
clinging to my curves and flowing around my legs as if it had been woven directly onto my skin.
When I looked in the mirror,
I didn't see the invisible younger sister;
I saw a woman who could hold the attention of a king.
The sedan returned at seven-thirty,
and I stepped inside,
leaving the safety of my neighborhood behind as we drove toward the heart of the city.
We arrived at a restaurant that had been closed to the public,
its windows dark and its entrance guarded by men with cold eyes and hidden holsters.
Carter was sitting at a table in the center of the room,
his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up,
revealing tattoos that wound around his forearms like dark vines.
He stood as I approached,
his eyes traveling over the blue dress with a slow,
deliberate appreciation that made my skin tingle.
“Blue,”
he said,
his voice vibrating through the quiet room.
“I knew it would be blue.”
“You have a lot of confidence for a man who didn't even ask if I was free,”
I said,
taking the seat he offered.
“I am a man who knows what he wants,”
he replied,
leaning forward until the candlelight reflected in his dark pupils.
“And what I want,
Diana,
is to know why you spend your days hiding in a gallery when you have the soul of a firestorm.”
“I’m not hiding,”
I argued,
though the lie felt thin even to my own ears.
“I’m just living a quiet life,
unlike you,
who seems to live in the middle of a war zone.”
“The war is everywhere,”
he said,
his hand reaching across the table to brush against mine.
“The only difference is that I’ve chosen my side,
May you like
and tonight,
I’m choosing yours.”
