Chapter 4 Don't make yourself even more embarrassed.

Seraphina POV

I stood beside Damien, feeling like an actor shoved onto the wrong stage. The whispers of the elite stung, their eyes raking over my plain, understated day dress. But the suffocating judgment was shattered by a voice colder than ice.

Damien didn't even look at me. His lethal gaze pinned my mother, Elena, to the marble floor.

"Mrs. Castillo," he asked, his tone so terrifyingly calm it made the massive crystal chandeliers seem to tremble. "Is the Castillo family so utterly bankrupt that you cannot afford a single gown? Or do you truly believe that the fiancée of Damien Moretti deserves to be paraded in rags?"

Elena's face drained of all color. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Sensing the danger, Bianca immediately stepped forward, her eyes wide with practiced innocence. "Mr. Moretti, please. We did prepare a gown for her. It was my sister who stubbornly refused to wear it."

Bianca gestured to a servant, who rushed forward with an ornate velvet box. Opening it, she revealed a cascade of emerald silk. She raised her voice, ensuring the entire ballroom could hear. "I pulled every string I had to acquire this haute couture piece from the legendary Parisian designer, Madame Valeriana. I only wanted the best for Sera."

Elena quickly recovered, her voice dripping with fake maternal warmth. "Go change, Sera. Don't waste your sister's precious gift."

I looked down at the dress. The stitching, the cut, the cheap sheen of the fabric. A bitter, genuine smile touched my lips. I had spent my whole life swallowing their poison, but not tonight.

I stepped closer to Bianca, my voice carrying clearly over the sudden hush of the room. "Wearing this poorly constructed counterfeit would be the greatest disrespect to Mr. Moretti."

A collective gasp rippled through the ballroom.

Damien's head turned. He didn't look at me; his dark, predatory eyes locked onto Bianca. There was no question in his gaze, only a silent, crushing judgment.

Bianca flinched, panic flashing in her eyes before she masked it with indignation. "How dare you! You're just a country girl! What would you know about high fashion? You're lying to cover up your own jealousy!"

"If you are so confident it is authentic," I said, my voice steady, "why don't we ask Madame Valeriana herself?"

Elena let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "You? Contact the most reclusive designer in Europe? Don't make a bigger fool of yourself, Seraphina."

"Don't just hire some actress to pretend on the phone," Bianca sneered, her confidence returning.

I ignored them. I turned to a nearby waiter standing by the wall. "Bring me the hotel's telephone. I need an international line to Paris."

The waiter hesitated, glancing at Damien. The Don gave a barely perceptible nod.

Seconds later, a heavy brass telephone was placed on a side table. I picked up the receiver and dialed a number I knew by heart. The ballroom was so quiet that the rhythmic ringing echoed through the space.

It rang only once.

A sharp, elegant voice answered, known across the globe for its icy arrogance. But the moment I spoke a quiet greeting, the woman's tone melted into genuine, warm affection.

"Sera, ma chérie!"(Sera, my darling!) Madame Valeriana's voice crackled through the receiver, speaking in rapid, flawless French. "You finally called! Tell me, did you receive the dress sketches for your upcoming piano concert?"

The silence that followed was absolute.

I could hear the sharp intake of breath from Luca Mendoza standing just behind Damien. The Consigliere clearly recognized the legendary designer's voice.

I watched the blood completely vanish from Bianca and Elena's faces. Their grand, malicious lie had just been incinerated in front of New York's most dangerous elite. Slowly, I met Damien's gaze. The possessive darkness in his eyes had shifted into a deep, dangerous intrigue.