The Rolls-Royce Phantom left the city limits behind, speeding along the Long Island Expressway before finally gliding to a stop in front of the Pierce family's historic Hamptons estate. The moment the tires halted on the gravel driveway, a barrage of camera flashes erupted from the press pen, turning the night as bright as day.
A bodyguard shoved the paparazzi back. Claudio stepped out first, adjusting his cuffs. He turned and extended his hand into the dark interior of the car.
Gena took a deep breath, forcing the violent pounding of her heart to slow. She placed her black-lace-gloved hand into Claudio's palm and stepped out onto the pavement.
The cameras went wild. The reporters shouted questions, expecting the mystery girl to cower. Instead, Gena lifted her chin, her face a mask of perfect, icy indifference. She offered the cold camera lenses a single, chillingly beautiful smile that silenced the crowd.
Claudio's hand slid from her palm to the small of her back, gripping her waist firmly. Together, they walked up the marble steps and through the heavy carved-wood doors.
The grand foyer was blinding. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over Renaissance oil paintings. Gena's breath hitched in her throat. Her stomach clenched. This was her house. She had picked out those paintings.
The chatter in the room died instantly. Every eye in the foyer locked onto the notorious Claudio Pierce and the stunning, unknown woman on his arm.
Alistair Thompson, the head butler, stepped forward. His eyes swept over Gena with polite disdain as he reached for Claudio's coat. Gena stared at the man who had helped Hubert cover up his affairs. Her fingers twitched with the urge to slap his face, but she forced her hands to relax.
The crowd parted. Hubert Pierce walked toward them, wearing a bespoke tuxedo and holding a flute of champagne. A sickeningly fake smile was plastered across his face.
Hubert's eyes dragged over Gena's body. A flicker of lust crossed his face before he turned his attention to Claudio, his expression morphing into a sneer.
"I saw the tabloids, Uncle," Hubert mocked, his voice carrying across the quiet room. "Is this the stray you almost got yourself killed over in Queens?"
Gena stood face-to-face with the man who had ordered her murder. The blood roared in her ears. Her fingernails dug into her palms so hard she felt the skin break, using the physical pain to keep her face paralyzed in a polite smile.
Claudio pulled Gena slightly closer to his chest. He let out a dark chuckle. "My taste has always been better than yours, Hubert. I don't dig through the garbage for my women."
The insult hit its mark. Hubert's jaw tightened, the knuckles holding his champagne glass turning stark white.
Gena tilted her head, her voice light and innocent, but laced with poison. "Your suit is tailored beautifully, Mr. Pierce. The cut of the lapel... it looks exactly like the work of that late designer. What a shame she passed."
Hubert's eyes snapped to Gena. The word "late" made the muscles in his face twitch. He stared at her, trying to find a crack in her innocent expression, guilt radiating from his rigid posture.
Before Hubert could respond, Ara Wilkinson glided up to his side. She wore a pristine white couture gown, clinging to Hubert's arm like a proud swan.
Ara looked Gena up and down with absolute superiority. "Welcome to the family," Ara said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "And what exactly is your background, dear?"
Gena looked at the face of the sister who had injected her with a sedative and left her to the dogs. Bile rose rapidly in her throat. She swallowed it down and smiled brightly.
"I'm just a design assistant," Gena replied smoothly. "But Claudio tells me he prefers people who actually work for a living, rather than those who just pretend."
Ara's fake smile cracked. The subtle accusation of being a fraud made her face flush red, but she couldn't snap back in front of the guests.
Claudio felt the rigid tension in Gena's spine. Thinking she was intimidated, his hand squeezed her waist in a gesture of protection.
Heavy footsteps echoed from the grand staircase. Auther Pierce, the patriarch of the Pierce family, descended slowly, leaning heavily on a silver-handled cane. The room fell dead silent.
Auther's sharp, hawkish eyes scanned the room, landing directly on Claudio and Gena. He let out a loud, disapproving snort.
"Take your seats," Auther commanded, his voice echoing off the marble. He turned to the butler. "Alistair, place Claudio's... guest... at the far end of the table."
It was a blatant, public humiliation designed to put the "commoner" in her place. Hubert and Ara exchanged a look of smug satisfaction.
Claudio's eyes darkened, his jaw clenching as he prepared to argue with his father.
Gena reached out and placed her hand over Claudio's. She looked up at him and smiled. "It's fine," she said loudly enough for the room to hear. "I prefer the end of the table. It gives me a perfect view of everyone's true faces."
Gena turned and walked gracefully toward the very end of the massive dining table, taking her seat like a queen preparing to pass judgment.
