After My Groom Protected His Mistress at Our Engagement Party

The bridal suite of the St. Regis was everything I'd dreamed of—crystal chandeliers casting prismatic light across ivory walls, fresh roses scenting the air, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan's glittering skyline. But despite the perfection surrounding me, my stomach churned with nerves.

I touched the simple silver pendant at my throat—my mother's final gift before cancer took her. The cool metal against my skin had always been my anchor in moments of anxiety.

"You can do this, Mom," I whispered to her memory. "I found someone who loves me for me."

Six years of living as an ordinary woman in Brooklyn had taught me to recognize genuine affection. Or so I thought.

The door burst open without warning, and Aunt Nancy swept in like a hurricane in Chanel, her oversized diamond earrings catching the light as she turned her nose up at everything in sight.

"Oh, Emberly, dear." Her voice dripped with condescension as she circled me, inspecting my dress. "I see you've chosen something... modest for the occasion."

I smoothed down the simple but elegant ivory gown I'd selected. It cost three months of my "ordinary" salary—a splurge that had made me save for weeks.

"I thought it was appropriate," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Appropriate?" She laughed, the sound like breaking glass. "The Blackwoods haven't worn anything off-the-rack since before the war. You're about to become family, for heaven's sake!"

I felt heat rising to my cheeks. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize—"

"That's precisely the problem." Aunt Nancy cut me off, adjusting her massive diamond bracelet. "You haven't realized what you're getting into. The Blackwood name carries weight in this city. We can't have you embarrassing us with your... working-class tastes."

I bit the inside of my cheek, fighting the urge to tell her exactly what I thought of her "tastes." But this wasn't about me. It was about Dante and our future together.

"I'll keep that in mind," I managed.

The door opened again, and Dante strode in, his tall frame filling the doorway. My heart skipped at the sight of him in his tailored tuxedo.

"Aunt Nancy," he said smoothly, kissing her powdered cheek. "I see you've met my beautiful bride."

"Your bride needs guidance, Dante." She sniffed. "The Blackwoods have standards."

I waited for him to defend me, to tell his aunt that my dress was perfect, that I was perfect just as I was.

Instead, he turned to me with those hazel eyes that had captivated me from our first meeting at that Brooklyn coffee shop.

"Emberly," he said gently, taking my hands in his. "You know how much I love you, right?"

I nodded, confusion creasing my brow.

"And you understand that Aunt Nancy is just looking out for us? For our future?"

I felt something cold settle in my stomach. "Dante, she's making fun of my dress—"

"She's concerned about appearances," he interrupted, his thumb stroking my palm in that way that always made me melt. "We need to adapt to our social circle if we want to fit in. It's just part of the adjustment."

His words hit me like a slap. Adapt? Adjust? I thought he loved me because I was different from the shallow socialites he'd grown up with.

"The engagement party is starting," he continued, checking his Rolex. "Let's not keep everyone waiting."

---

The grand ballroom sparkled like a dream. Hundreds of guests mingled beneath crystal chandeliers, champagne flutes clinking as servers weaved through the crowd. I'd never seen so many designer gowns and tailored suits in one place.

Dante squeezed my hand as we approached the small stage where the string quartet played softly.

"Ready for our toast?" he whispered, his breath warm against my ear.

I nodded, though my stomach still churned with unease. Something felt wrong, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

Dante raised his champagne flute, and the room gradually fell silent. All eyes turned to us—the happy couple, the future Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Dante began, his voice carrying across the hushed room. "Tonight we celebrate—"

The heavy mahogany doors at the far end of the ballroom crashed open with a thunderous boom that silenced every whisper.

A figure stood in the doorway, backlit by the hallway lights. As she stepped forward, gasps rippled through the crowd.

She wore black. Not just any black—a full funeral gown with a high collar and long sleeves, complete with a sheer mourning veil that obscured her face. The only color was a single blood-red rose pinned to her chest.

"Dante," she called out, her voice carrying a theatrical tremor that silenced the room. "How could you celebrate when I'm mourning?"

The champagne flute nearly slipped from my fingers as recognition dawned. Leighton Voss—Dante's childhood friend.

She moved forward like a ghost, her gaze fixed on Dante with such intensity that I felt invisible standing beside him.

"My baby," she announced to the stunned crowd, her hand moving protectively to her flat stomach beneath the voluminous black gown. "I lost my baby three days ago."

The room erupted in whispers as Dante's face drained of color.