Chapter 12 The Gala Performance
Alessia couldn’t stop thinking about Siobhan’s words.
Don’t be the one to break what’s left of him.
Three days had passed since Siobhan’s visit. Three days of painting supplies sitting unused on the kitchen counter. Three days of guilt gnawing at her insides like acid.
She stood in her bedroom, staring at the canvas she’d started—the jagged black line cutting through white. Trapped.
But now she realized she wasn’t just trapped by circumstance.
She was trapped by her own humanity.
Because Siobhan was good. Kind. Real. And Alessia was going to destroy her world.
Her phone buzzed on the dresser.
A text from Thorne. Status update. Now.
She deleted it without responding.
She couldn’t contact him. Not yet. Not while the bug in her room was active, not while Liam was watching her every move, not while she was still trying to figure out who else was listening.
Another buzz. This time, a different number. Unknown.
Tonight. The Plaza. Gala. Wear the red Valentino.
Alessia’s blood ran cold.
She looked up at the ceiling, her skin crawling as though invisible eyes were on her.
Someone was watching. Right now.
She moved to her closet slowly, her heart hammering, and pulled out the red Valentino dress—floor-length, plunging neckline, slit up the thigh.
She held it up, turning slightly, as if considering it.
The phone buzzed again.
Perfect choice.
Alessia set the dress down carefully, forcing her breathing to remain steady.
Whoever was watching wasn’t Liam. He wouldn’t be this subtle. This was someone else.
The Council? The cartel? Someone connected to that encrypted transmission from the wedding?
She had no idea.
But she had to play along. Had to keep performing until she figured out who was pulling the strings.
She looked at the canvas one more time, at the jagged black line.
Don’t be the one to break what’s left of him.
“I’m sorry, Siobhan,” she whispered to the empty room. “I’m so sorry.”
Then she picked up the red dress and began preparing for the performance of her life.
Liam was waiting in the living room when she emerged.
He wore a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, dark auburn hair pushed back, blue eyes cold and assessing as they swept over her.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“You look acceptable,” he said finally.
“You look tolerable,” she replied.
His jaw tightened, but something flickered in his eyes. Curiosity? Suspicion? She couldn’t tell anymore.
“We need to establish ground rules,” he said.
“I’m listening.”
“Tonight, we’re a united front. Loving. Devoted. Convincing.” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “You touch me when appropriate. Smile when necessary. Laugh at my jokes even if they’re not funny.”
“And you?”
“I’ll do the same.” His eyes locked on hers. “But don’t mistake the performance for reality. Back here, we’re strangers.”
Alessia thought of Siobhan’s hug. The warmth of human connection. The weight of the betrayal she was carrying.
“Understood,” she said quietly.
He offered his arm. “Shall we?”
Alessia took it, feeling the tension in his muscles beneath the expensive fabric.
And as they walked to the elevator, she couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight would change everything.
The gala was at the Plaza Hotel, a glittering spectacle of wealth and power.
Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings. Champagne flowed. Diamonds sparkled. The air buzzed with conversations in multiple languages, deals made in whispers, alliances forged over cocktails.
This was where New York’s elite came to see and be seen.
And tonight, the newest power couple—the O’Sullivan heir and his Scarpetti bride—were the main attraction.
Every eye turned as they entered.
Liam’s hand settled on the small of Alessia’s back, possessive, warm. She leaned into him slightly, body language open, trusting.
The performance had begun.
“Liam! Alessia!” A woman in her sixties approached, dripping in pearls and authority. Margaret Knox, wife of a shipping magnate, notorious socialite. “What a beautiful couple you make!”
“Mrs. Knox,” Liam greeted smoothly, smiling charmingly. “Thank you for the invitation.”
“Oh, how could I not invite you? The wedding of the century!” She turned to Alessia, eyes sharp and calculating. “And you, my dear. How are you adjusting to married life?”
Alessia smiled, soft and demure. “It’s been wonderful. Liam is everything I could have hoped for.”
She felt Liam’s fingers flex against her back. A warning? Surprise?
“How romantic,” Mrs. Knox cooed. “You must tell me your secret. My own marriage could use some of that fire.”
They chatted for several minutes. Alessia played the perfect bride—gracious, poised, just shy enough.
When Mrs. Knox moved on, Liam leaned close, lips brushing her ear.
“That was convincing,” he murmured.
“That’s the point, isn’t it?”
“Too convincing.”
She looked up at him, innocent. “Would you prefer I act miserable?”
“I’d prefer you act like yourself.”
“This is myself.”
His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
They worked the room like professionals.
Liam introduced her to business associates, political connections, family allies. Alessia smiled, laughed, asked questions that made her seem engaged but not threatening.
She was perfect.
And Liam hated it.
Because he couldn’t find a crack in her armor. Couldn’t see past the performance.
“Dance with me,” he said suddenly, taking her hand.
“Now?”
“Now.”
He led her to the dance floor, couples swaying to a slow jazz melody. His hand on her waist, hers on his shoulder. Other hands clasped.
They moved together, bodies in rhythm, disturbingly natural.
“You’re good at this,” Liam said quietly.
“At dancing?”
“At lying.”
Alessia’s smile didn’t falter. “I’m not lying.”
“Yes, you are. Every word, gesture, smile—calculated. Rehearsed.” He pulled her closer, breath warm against her ear. “Who trained you?”
Her heart hammered. “What?”
“You heard me. This level of performance isn’t natural. Someone taught you. Who?”
“My father,” she said. Not a full lie. “He believes presentation is everything.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care.”
Liam’s grip tightened. “You should.”
“Why? Because you’ll bruise my other wrist?”
The words escaped before she could stop them.
His body went rigid. She thought he might drop her on the dance floor.
Instead, he spun her sharply, controlled, back against his chest.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said quietly. “But I meant every word.”
“So did I.”
They finished the dance in tense silence, bodies moving in perfect sync despite the war between them.
When the music ended, Liam released her immediately.
“I need a drink,” he said.
“Make it two.”
Alessia stood by the bar, sipping champagne, trying to calm her racing heart, when a familiar voice cut through the chatter.
“Well, well. The princess bride.”
She turned.
Marco Scarpetti. Cousin. Her father’s nephew. Drunk. Glassy-eyed, swaying slightly.
“Marco,” she said evenly.
“Alessia.” He moved closer, breath reeking of whiskey. “How’s married life? Spreading your legs for the enemy?”
Her jaw tightened. “Watch your mouth.”
“Why? You didn’t when you said ‘I do’ to that Irish bastard.” Bitter laugh. “Your mother would be ashamed.”
The mention of her mother hit her like a blow.
Alessia’s hands trembled. “Don’t talk about my mother.”
“Why not? She knew loyalty. But you?” He sneered. “A whore in a wedding dress.”
The room went quiet. People watching, sensing drama.
Liam appeared at her side, face dark with controlled fury.
“You need to leave,” he said, voice deadly calm.
Marco laughed. “Or what? Kill me? Like Declan Scarpetti? Like your men?”
“Marco, enough,” Alessia said quietly.
“No. Fuck you and him.” He jabbed Liam’s chest.
“Marrying her doesn’t make you legitimate. Still a murderer. And everyone knows it.”
Liam’s hands curled into fists. Alessia saw it happening in slow motion—shoulders tensing, eyes cold, violence coiling.
He was going to hit Marco.
She couldn’t let that happen.
Before Liam moved, she stepped forward.
And slapped Marco with shocking force.
The crack echoed. Silence.
Marco staggered, hand to his cheek, stunned.
Alessia stepped forward again, voice low and venomous, just loud enough.
“You will respect my husband.”
Her fury was real. “I don’t care what history our families have. Liam is my husband. Speak like that again, you answer to me. Understand?”
Marco stammered.
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Good.” Alessia’s voice was ice. “Now get out of my sight.”
Marco stumbled into the crowd.
The room stayed frozen, then applause erupted.
Alessia’s chest heaved, adrenaline coursing.
She turned to Liam. Not gratitude. Not relief. Something else. Deep, unsettling curiosity.
“Let’s go,” he said quietly, taking her arm.
The crowd parted for them like water.
The ride home was silent.
Alessia’s hand tingled from the slap, heart still racing.
She’d lost control. Completely.
Not part of the plan. Not calculated.
Real.
“Why did you do that?” Liam asked finally.
“He disrespected you.”
“And?
“And we’re a united front. Wasn’t that the rule?”
“You slapped your cousin for me.”
“I slapped him for insulting my husband,” she corrected. “There’s a difference.”
Liam was quiet.
“Who are you, Alessia?”
“What?”
“Who are you really?” Eyes searching, unrelenting. “The woman who slapped a man twice her size—trained, dangerous. Who is she?”
Alessia’s mouth went dry.
“I’m your wife,” she said carefully.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’ll get.”
They pulled up at the penthouse.
Liam exited first, holding the door.
As she stepped past, he caught her wrist—the same one he’d bruised days ago.
This time, gentle.
“I will figure you out,” he said softly. “Every secret. Every lie. Every piece of armor.”
Alessia met his gaze, heart pounding.
“Good luck with that.”
She pulled free and walked inside, leaving him outside, eyes dangerous, curious.
For the first time, Alessia realized something terrifying.
Liam O’Sullivan was seeing her.
Not the performance. Not the mask.
Her.
And she had no idea how to stop him.