Chapter 4 - The Press Conference
The central courtyard of the Marquetti estate was a sea of flashing cameras, glaring lights, and shouting journalists. Over fifty major news outlets had set up satellite trucks outside the iron gates, desperate to cover the scandal that was rocking high society.
Inside the green room, two professional stylists were putting the finishing touches on my appearance.
I barely recognized the woman staring back at me in the full-length mirror. Gone was the plain black maid dress and tied-back hair. In its place was an exquisite, long-sleeved emerald green silk gown that draped gracefully over my frame, concealing the heavy bandages wrapping around my shoulders and back. My dark brown hair was styled in soft, elegant waves falling over one shoulder, cleverly exposing the faint, fading bruise on my left cheek.
“You look stunning, Miss Croft,” one of the stylists whispered nervously, fixing the emerald drop earrings hanging from my lobes.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, my hands trembling in my lap.
The heavy double doors opened, and Enzo walked in. He wore a midnight-blue suit, tailored to perfection. His presence immediately rendered the small room claustrophobic. He motioned for the stylists to leave.
He walked over to where I sat and stood behind my chair, meeting my eyes in the mirror.
“Are you ready?” he asked softly.
“I’m terrified,” I confessed, looking up at him. “What if I make a mistake? What if they ask me questions I can't answer?”
Enzo placed his large, warm hands on my shoulders. His touch sent a subtle shockwave through my nervous system, grounding my spiraling anxiety.
“You don't need to answer their questions,” Enzo said calmly. “You look into the cameras, keep your head high, and let me execute the strike. Camila and her father are sitting in their mansion right now, watching this live, believing I am about to offer a formal apology.”
He leaned down, his lips hovering near my ear.
“Show them that the girl they treated like trash is stronger than all of them combined.”
He extended his arm to me. I hesitated for a fraction of a second before placing my hand on his forearm. Together, we walked out into the bright afternoon sun of the courtyard.
The moment we stepped onto the elevated wooden stage, the noise from the crowd exploded. Flashbulbs blinded me in a chaotic burst of white light. Reporters shouted over one another, shoving microphones forward.
“Mr. Marquetti! Is it true the maid assaulted Miss Ashford?” “Adeline Croft! Are you facing criminal charges?” “Enzo! Is the wedding cancelled?”
Enzo led me to a seat at the long wooden table, pulling out my chair before taking his place beside me behind a bank of microphones. He raised a single hand, and instantly, as if by magic, the chaotic crowd fell dead silent.
“Good afternoon,” Enzo began, his deep, resonant voice amplified across the courtyard. “I called this conference to clarify the events that took place at the gala last evening, and to address the defamatory statements released by Ashford Logistics.”
A hundred cameras focused sharply on his face.
“For the past twelve hours, Miss Camila Ashford has painted herself as a victim of an unprovoked attack by a member of my staff, Miss Adeline Croft,” Enzo continued calmly. “She has demanded Miss Croft’s arrest and used her family’s media outlets to slander this young woman’s character.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black USB drive, placing it on the table.
“What Miss Ashford did not realize,” Enzo declared, his voice dropping into a menacing tone, “is that the Marquetti estate is monitored by a state-of-the-art, high-definition audio and video security system. Every corner of the ballroom was recorded.”
A sudden rustle of excitement swept through the journalists.
Enzo tapped a remote control in his hand. A massive digital screen behind us flickered to life, displaying crystal-clear footage from the gala the night before.
The video showed Camila approaching Mrs. Rosaria with the glass of Pinot Noir. The camera zoomed in with frightening clarity on Camila’s right hand, showing her surreptitiously dropping a tiny, water-soluble tablet into the red liquid just seconds before offering it to the elderly woman.
Gasps erupted from the audience. Reporters began frantically recording the screen with their phones.
“This video,” Enzo explained coldly, “shows Miss Ashford intentionally contaminating a beverage intended for my mother. Furthermore, chemical analysis conducted by an independent laboratory confirms the presence of digitalis—a potent cardiac toxin that, when combined with my mother’s medication, would have been lethal.”
The courtyard erupted into utter chaos. Reporters were screaming questions, their eyes wide with disbelief.
“Miss Adeline Croft,” Enzo continued, his voice cutting through the noise like a scythe, “noticed the suspicious motion and intervened. She did not act out of clumsiness or malice. She acted with extraordinary heroism, risking her own safety to save my mother’s life.”
He pressed the remote again. The screen shifted to secondary footage—showing Camila grabbing the heavy riding crop from the wall and savagely beating me while I lay on the floor, making no attempt to retaliate.
The crowd gasped in horror at the brutal violence depicted on the screen.
“Miss Ashford committed attempted murder and aggravated assault under my roof,” Enzo stated, his eyes burning into the main camera lens as if looking directly at Camila through the broadcast. “As of ten minutes ago, my legal team has filed formal criminal charges with the State Prosecutor. Warrants have been issued for the arrest of Camila Ashford and her father for conspiracy.”
I sat frozen, watching the masterclass of destruction unfolding beside me. In less than five minutes, Enzo had completely flipped the narrative, cleared my name, and utterly annihilated one of the most powerful families in the city.
Enzo stood up, turning to extend his hand to me once more.
“This press conference is concluded,” he announced.
I placed my hand in his, and he helped me stand. As we turned to leave the stage, a bold reporter yelled out above the roar:
“Mr. Marquetti! What is the true nature of your relationship with Miss Croft? Why protect a housemaid with such extreme measures?”
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Enzo stopped walking. He didn't turn back toward the crowd, but his grip on my hand tightened slightly.
“Miss Croft is no longer a housemaid,” Enzo replied, his voice carrying clearly across the quieted courtyard. “She is under the personal protection of the Marquetti family. Anyone who touches her answers directly to me.”
