chapter 32 Resistent

chapter 32 Resistent
Carla's POV

The charity gala felt like navigating a minefield while wearing a smile. Every conversation demanded my full attention, but I couldn't ignore the device hidden beneath my dress that Alessandro controlled.

The vibrations would start without warning, sometimes gentle, sometimes intense, forcing me to grip my champagne flute tighter and bite the inside of my cheek to maintain composure.

"Mrs. Bonano, your husband's recovery must be such a relief," commented Mrs. Pemberton, the pharmaceutical heiress we'd been speaking with earlier. "And expecting your first child during such a challenging time... you're truly remarkable."

I felt the familiar buzz against my most sensitive area just as I opened my mouth to respond. My breath caught, and I quickly covered it with what I hoped looked like emotional overwhelm.

"It's... it's been difficult, But we're hopeful."

Alessandro's hand rested possessively on my lower back, his thumb tracing small circles. Through my peripheral vision, I caught him glancing at his phone screen, finger hovering over what I knew was the app controlling my torment.

The vibration intensified suddenly, and I had to press my lips together to suppress a gasp. Mrs. Pemberton's eyebrows rose with concern.

"Are you feeling alright, dear? You look flushed."

"Just tired," I said quickly. "The pregnancy, you know..."

"Of course. The first trimester can be so exhausting. You should rest more."

If only she knew that rest was the last thing on my mind.

The evening dragged on endlessly. I smiled and nodded through discussions about hospital funding, made appropriate sounds of sympathy when people mentioned sick children, and somehow managed to avoid dropping my glass when the device suddenly shifted to its highest setting during a conversation with the museum director.

"The Bonano family's generosity has been instrumental in our children's wing renovation," he was saying. "Your family's commitment to helping vulnerable children is truly admirable."

"We believe in giving back," I whispered, my knuckles white against the mahogany chair back.

By the time we'd made our rounds through the Great Hall, my legs felt unsteady and my composure was hanging by a thread. When Alessandro paused to speak with a group of city councilmen, I saw my chance.

"Excuse me," I murmured, slipping away from his side. "I need to... powder my nose."

I walked as quickly as I dared toward the ladies' lounge, my champagne flute still in hand. The moment I was out of Alessandro's sight, the vibrations mercifully stopped, allowing me to catch my breath and steady myself against the marble wall.

The ladies' room was empty, giving me precious moments of solitude. I set my glass on the vanity counter and gripped the sink, staring at my reflection. My cheeks were flushed, my pupils dilated, and there was a sheen of perspiration along my hairline despite the museum's air conditioning.

I splashed cool water on my wrists and took several deep breaths, trying to regain my equilibrium. When I picked up my champagne glass again, I frowned. It was nearly empty when I'd escaped from the reception, but now it was three-quarters full.

Had I been more distracted than I'd realized? With everything happening to my body, perhaps I'd simply misremembered how much I'd actually drunk.

I took a small sip. Either way, I needed the liquid courage to face the rest of the evening.

When I emerged from the ladies' room, I nearly collided with Luca.

"Carla, You look lovely tonight. How are you feeling?"

"Fine," I said curtly, immediately turning to walk back toward the reception. "I should return to Alessandro."

But as I took a step, something felt wrong. The room seemed to tilt slightly, and a wave of dizziness washed over me. I reached out to steady myself against the wall, confused by the sudden disorientation.

"Are you alright? You look pale."

"I'm..." I blinked hard, trying to clear my vision. The champagne glass felt heavier in my hand. "I think I need to sit down."

"Of course. Here, let me help you."

His hand closed around my upper arm, and I wanted to pull away, but my body wasn't responding the way it should. Everything felt sluggish, disconnected, like I was watching myself from outside my own body.

"I should find Alessandro," I said.

"He's busy with important people. I'll take care of you."

Luca's grip tightened as he began guiding me away from the reception hall.

"Mrs. Bonano!"

I turned my head with effort to see Dr. Richardson, one of the hospital board members we'd met earlier. His face swam in and out of focus.

"Is everything alright?" he asked, approaching with obvious concern.

"She's feeling a bit overwhelmed," Luca explained smoothly. "The pregnancy, you know. I'm just helping her to a quiet place where she can rest."

I opened my mouth to contradict him, to explain that something was terribly wrong, but no words came out.

"Of course," Dr. Richardson nodded sympathetically. "First pregnancies can be so demanding. Make sure she gets plenty of fluids."

"Absolutely. I'll take excellent care of her."

As Luca steered me toward the museum's service elevator, I caught glimpses of other guests who knew us. Mrs. Vanderberg from the art restoration committee waved cheerfully. Senator Morrison's wife smiled and mouthed "feel better" as we passed. To everyone, it looked like a caring family member helping an expectant mother who was feeling unwell.

But inside my increasingly foggy mind, alarms were screaming. This wasn't pregnancy fatigue or stress from Alessandro's games. This was something else entirely.

The elevator doors closed, trapping me in a small space with Luca. I tried to press the button for the main floor, but my hand moved too slowly, and he easily intercepted it.

"We're going up," he said softly. "The museum has private rooms on the upper floors. Much quieter there."

I wanted to escape, but my body was betraying me.

When the elevator doors opened on the fifth floor, Luca half-carried me down a dimly lit hallway lined with offices and storage rooms. At the far end was a door marked "Private Donors' Lounge," and he produced a key from his tuxedo pocket.

"How..."

"I have friends in many places," he said, unlocking the door. "Friends who understand that sometimes a man needs privacy for important conversations."

He guided me into what appeared to be an elegant sitting room with expensive furniture and tasteful artwork. As soon as the door closed behind us, his entire demeanor changed.

"Now we can really talk," he said, his hands moving to my shoulders.

I tried to step back, but my coordination was shot.

"Don't," I managed to whisper as his hands moved to the zipper of my dress.

"Shh," he murmured against my ear. "You've been teasing me for weeks, playing the innocent pregnant wife. But I saw you at Velvet House, remember? I know what you really are."

The fabric of my dress tore as he pulled too roughly at the zipper. I tried to push him away, but my arms felt like they were moving through thick syrup.

"Stop," I gasped, but the word barely had any sound behind it.