Chapter 2 - THE ROOTS OF DECEPTION
The silence that followed the older woman's entrance was heavier than the marble pillars holding up the ceiling. Every guest in the room—politicians, real estate moguls, and socialites who usually thrived on gossip—found themselves paralyzed, sensing that they were standing on the edge of an avalanche they couldn't escape.
"Who the hell are you?" I asked, my voice flat, cold, and carrying the absolute authority of a man accustomed to owning every room he entered.
I didn't look at Camille. I kept my eyes locked on the woman in the wool coat.
"My name is Beatrice Vance," she said, stepping fully into the warm light of the chandelier. Her posture was rigid, worn down by decades of hard labor, yet carrying an unmistakable dignity. She looked around the opulent dining room with quiet disdain, her gaze lingering on the silver cutlery and the uneaten filet mignon before fixing squarely on my former fiancée. "And I am not a ghost, though Camille has spent the last three years paying people to pretend I am one."
Camille’s hands clawed at the edge of the mahogany table, her knuckles white. "She's lying," Camille choked out, her voice cracking with sheer panic. "Gabriel, don't listen to her! She’s a lunatic! A stalker! One of those crazy people who fixates on high-profile families—security, throw her out! Marco!"
Marco didn't move. He stood by the service door, watching me for the nod that would authorize him to act. I didn't give it.
"Shut up, Camille," I said quietly. It wasn't a shout, but the absolute finality in my tone made her snap her mouth shut so fast her teeth clicked.
I walked around the table, stopping three feet from Beatrice Vance. Up close, I could see the fine network of wrinkles around her eyes and the way her hands gripped a worn leather handbag as if it were a shield.
"Mrs. Vance," I said, my tone leveling out. "You walked into my house uninvited, interrupted my dinner party, and called my fiancée a liar. You better have something substantial to back that up, because if you're just a crank looking for a payout, Marco will drop you outside the gates before you can draw your next breath."
Beatrice didn't flinch. She met my gaze with an intensity that reminded me uncomfortably of my own father.
"I don't want your money, Mr. Moretti," she said, her voice steady and clear. "I want justice for what was stolen from my family. And I want the world to know that the woman standing over there in silk and diamonds isn't Camille Laurent from the Geneva-educated Swiss aristocracy. Her name is Chloe Vance. She’s my daughter. And the diamond bracelet she’s wearing right now? That belongs to the estate of my late sister, whose house Chloe looted before she changed her name and ran away to Boston."
A collective gasp rippled through the guests. Phones were discreetly pulled out beneath the table—screens glowing as people texted reporters, lawyers, and gossip columns.
Camille—or Chloe—let out a shrill, hysterical sob, pushing herself away from the table. "It's not true! She's an abusive mother! I legally emancipated myself! She's just trying to extort us because Gabriel is a billionaire!"
"Emancipated?" Beatrice let out a dry, humorless laugh that held no humor at all. "You didn't emancipate yourself, Chloe. You forged my signature on legal documents while I was recovering from a stroke in Dorchester General, emptied out our family savings account—every last penny my husband left us when he died at the shipyard—and left me sleeping on a cot in a shelter so you could buy a plane ticket to New York and buy your way into high society."
She reached into her worn leather bag and pulled out a thick manila envelope, sliding it across the marble floor toward my feet.
I bent down, picked it up, and untied the string.
Inside were bank statements, birth certificates, notarized affidavits, police reports detailing a grand larceny charge filed in Suffolk County three years ago under the name Chloe Vance, and side-by-side childhood photographs that left zero room for doubt. The nose, the shape of the jaw, the birthmark hidden just below the hairline—it was all there.
I slid the papers back into the envelope and looked up at Camille.
She was shaking now, her sophisticated facade completely shattered, her makeup streaking as hot tears finally broke through.
"You lied about your name," I said softly, stepping closer to her. "You lied about your background, your education, your family, and your history. You fabricated an entire pedigree so you could slip past my background checks."
"I had to!" she shrieked, finally dropping the mask entirely. Her voice turned desperate, ugly, and frantic. "You don't understand what it’s like down there! You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, Gabriel! You’ve never had to starve! You’ve never had to wear hand-me-downs and watch your mother scrub floors for rich snobs who wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire! I did what I had to do to survive! I made myself into someone worthy of you!"
"Worthy of me?" I asked, the sheer audacity of her statement making a cold, dark fury rise in my chest. "You think cruelty makes you worthy of me? You think burning a maid with hot tea and stepping on people who can't fight back makes you a Moretti?"
"Yes!" she cried, lunging forward, desperate to grab my arm. "We're the same, Gabriel! Your father built this empire on blood and ruined lives! Everyone knows what the Moretti name is built on! We're predators! Why are you acting like you're better than me just because my father worked in a shipyard instead of a boardroom?"
The words hung in the air like poison gas.
For a second, the entire room held its breath. Nobody spoke to a Moretti like that—especially not someone whose entire identity was a house of cards.
I looked down at her outstretched hand, then slowly raised my eyes to meet hers.
"My father built his empire on ruthlessness," I said, my voice dropping an octave, turning into a low, rumbling menace that made the nearest guests shrink back. "He was a killer, and so am I when I need to be. But my father had rules. He never preyed on the weak for sport. He never kicked someone who was already down just to feel tall. And above all else..."
I paused, leaning in until my lips were inches from her ear.
"...he never let a liar sit at his table."
I stepped back and raised my hand.
Marco materialized at my shoulder instantly, his expression granite-hard.
"Take her things," I commanded, gesturing to the designer luggage upstairs in our suite and the jewelry glittering on her wrists and neck. "Strip every single thing bought with Moretti money off her body. Give her a standard coach ticket back to Dorchester, and make sure she never sets foot in Weston again."
"No! Gabriel, please! You can't do this!" Camille screamed, her voice turning feral as two security guards grabbed her arms, hauling her away from the table as she kicked and thrashed in her champagne silk dress. "You'll regret this! You'll—!"
Her screams faded down the long marble corridor, swallowed by the heavy oak doors of the service exit.
The dining room was dead silent once more.
May you like
Two hundred of Massachusetts's elite sat frozen in their seats, staring at me as if I were a monster wrapped in a tuxedo.
I didn't care what they thought. I turned my attention back to Beatrice Vance, who stood quietly near the entrance, her breathing shallow, waiting to see what the billionaire predator would do to her now that the proxy war was over.
