Chapter 4 - The Gala Trap
The night of the city council dinner arrived like a storm.
The mansion was transformed into a glittering palace of light and classical music. Caterers in white coats moved through the halls, carrying trays of champagne and delicate hors d'oeuvres. Chicago's elite—politicians, developers, and socialites—chatted beneath the crystal chandeliers, their laughter echoing off the marble floors.
In the east wing, Clara was helping the boys with their final adjustments.
They were wearing dark blue velvet blazers, gray trousers, and tiny silk bow ties. They looked like miniature princes, their hair combed neatly, their faces clean and bright.
"Now, remember," Clara said, kneeling in front of them. "We are going to walk down, greet the guests, and stay for exactly twenty minutes. No running, no throwing, and no whispering secrets about the guests' outfits. If we make it through the presentation, everyone gets their weekly token."
"Even Cole?" Mason asked, pointing to his brother, who was currently trying to balance a silver spoon on his nose.
"If Cole behaves, yes," Clara smiled, gently taking the spoon from Cole’s hand. "We are a team. We stand together, or we fall together. Right?"
"Right," they chimed in unison.
When Clara led them into the grand ballroom, a collective gasp ran through the crowd. The "Hale disasters" were famous in Chicago's social circles for their destructive capability. Nobody expected to see them walking in a neat, polite line, their hands tucked neatly at their sides.
Victor stood near the grand fireplace, talking to a powerful city councilman. When he saw them, he paused mid-sentence. His eyes traveled from the boys to Clara, who was wearing a simple, elegant dark green dress that she had found in her old trunk. She looked beautiful—not with the artificial polish of the high-society women in the room, but with a raw, natural grace that commanded respect.
"Victor," a sharp, high-pitched voice interrupted.
A woman in a glittering gold dress walked over, her eyes locked onto Clara with clear hostility. It was Evelyn Vance, a wealthy socialite who had been trying to secure a match with Victor since his wife’s passing.
"I see you’ve hired a new... assistant," Evelyn said, her eyes tracing Clara’s cheap dress with obvious disdain. "Though I must say, using the children as a public relations stunt is a bit much, don't you think?"
"Clara is the governess of this estate, Evelyn," Victor said, his voice turning cold. "She is not an assistant."
"Of course," Evelyn sneered, turning her attention to the boys. "Well, let's see how long they last. I remember the last one didn't even make it to the main course."
She leaned down toward Mason, her smile empty. "Hello, sweetie. Did your little nurse help you put on those cheap clothes today?"
Mason’s eyes narrowed. He looked at Clara, then at Evelyn’s expensive gold dress. He remembered Clara’s rule: We are a team. We stand together.
"Our clothes aren't cheap," Mason said, his voice carrying clearly over the music. "And Clara is our governess. She made us carbonara. You just smell like old flowers."
Several nearby guests choked on their champagne.
Evelyn’s face turned a violent shade of red. "You little—"
"Mason," Clara said, her voice calm but firm. "Apologize to Ms. Vance for the comment about the flowers."
Mason looked at Clara, then sighed. "I'm sorry you smell like old flowers."
It wasn't a perfect apology, but the sheer restraint the boy showed was a miracle to everyone who knew him.
May you like
Victor stepped forward, his hand resting gently on Mason’s shoulder. "I think it’s time for the boys to return to their quarters. Thank you for coming down, gentlemen."
As Clara led them away, she caught Victor’s eye. He gave her a slow, deliberate nod of approval—a gesture that made her chest swell with a warmth she hadn't felt in a very long time.
