Chapter 74

Chapter 74
Lila

I reached out to touch the deep blue silk, remembering that awful day when Victoria had sneered at my presumption. Now I would wear it as armor.

Sofia helped me into the dress with careful attention to my ankle. The silk felt cool and luxurious, the cut flattering in a way that boosted my confidence. When I stood before the mirror, I felt something shift—a straightening of my spine, a lifting of my chin.

"Perfect," Sofia breathed. "Victoria is going to choke on her own tongue."

We made our way to the living room where Elias waited, already dressed in an impeccable charcoal suit. He looked up as we entered, instantly revealing a primitive and intense possessiveness.

He crossed the room in three strides, stopping close enough that I could feel his heat. His hand cupped my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone while his eyes traveled over me with unmistakable hunger.

"You look stunning," he said, voice rough. "Absolutely devastating."

I leaned into his touch. "I wish you were coming with us. It would be easier with you there."

Regret flickered across his face. "I know, and I'm sorry. But I have three board meetings this morning that I can't reschedule without raising questions. The last thing we need is the board speculating about my priorities. They're already nervous about the Whitmore situation."

"I understand."

"But I'll be watching," he continued, voice taking on that controlled intensity. "The entire event is being livestreamed. I'll have it up on my monitor, and if anything goes wrong, I'll be there ASAP. Noah will be with you, and he has instructions to call immediately if there's any problem."

He pulled me closer, arm wrapping around my waist. "You don't have to do this if you don't want to. We can call it off right now."

I considered it for a moment, then met his gaze. "No. I want to do this. I need to."

His expression shifted into something fierce and proud. He raised my hand to his lips. "Show them exactly who you are. Show them the woman I fell in love with—the one who refuses to be broken."

Sofia made a sound between laugh and sob. "Okay, you two are going to make me cry. Come on, Lila. Let's go watch some rich people squirm."

Elias walked us to the elevator, hand on the small of my back. At the doors, he pulled me in for one more kiss.

"Remember," he said, voice low, "you're not alone in this. I'm with you every second. And tonight, when this is over, I'm going to show you exactly how proud I am."

---

The limousine pulled up to the St. Regis precisely at noon. Through the tinted windows, I could see the elaborate preparations—red carpet, velvet ropes, photographers, hotel staff in crisp uniforms.

"Jesus," I breathed. "This is really happening."

Sofia squeezed my hand. "Remember what we talked about. You're here to receive what's owed—acknowledgment, apology, and the satisfaction of watching them squirm."

The driver opened the door. Cameras flashed as I emerged, Sofia steadying me. Two attendants materialized with an elegant wheelchair, positioning it efficiently.

"Ms. Reed, welcome to the St. Regis." A distinguished gentleman in an impeccable suit approached. "I'm Marcus, the hotel manager. The Ashford family has given explicit instructions that you receive our highest level of service. Please, allow us to escort you inside."

I settled into the wheelchair, acutely aware of cameras tracking my every movement. Sofia positioned herself beside me, hand on my shoulder as the attendants pushed me forward along the red carpet.

The lobby was ostentatious luxury—marble floors polished to mirror-brightness, massive crystal chandeliers, enormous floral arrangements. A string quartet played softly, providing an incongruously elegant soundtrack to what was essentially a public humiliation ritual.

"The ballroom has been prepared according to the Ashford family's specifications," Marcus continued, voice pitched to be overheard. "We've arranged premium seating with optimal sightlines. The media representatives have been positioned to ensure comprehensive coverage while maintaining dignity."

Dignity. The word felt absurd. I caught glimpses of familiar faces—society matrons, business executives, people whose existence revolved around maintaining their position in New York's social hierarchy. They watched with expressions ranging from curious to calculating.

We entered the Grand Ballroom, and I had to suppress a gasp. The space had been transformed into something resembling a courtroom, with rows of plush seats facing a raised platform. Behind the podium hung an enormous banner emblazoned with both the Ashford and Whitmore family crests.

The attendants wheeled me to the front row, to a section cordoned off with velvet ropes and marked "Reserved for Ms. Reed." The seats were noticeably larger and more luxurious, positioned to provide an unobstructed view while ensuring I'd be clearly visible to everyone else.

As I settled in, Sofia beside me, I became acutely aware of the attention focused on us. Conversations died as people turned to stare. Whispers started immediately:

"—that's her? The one all this fuss is about?"

"—heard she was just the daughter's tutor—"

"—can you imagine? The Ashford family apologizing publicly to someone with no family name—"

"—must be quite a woman to make Elias Voss crash Whitmore's stock—"

"—either way, unprecedented. A family like the Ashfords, apologizing to a complete nobody—"

I felt my shoulders tensing, old shame creeping up my spine.

Sofia's hand found mine. "You're not ordinary," she murmured. "You're my mother. You're Dad's most treasured person. Anyone who hurts you answers to us, and that's not a privilege from money—it comes from love."

The tightness in my chest eased. I forced myself to sit straighter, to lift my chin and meet the stares with calm composure.

"It's strange, isn't it?" I said quietly. "All this effort, just to publicly apologize to someone they clearly consider beneath them. It really drives home that this isn't about me—it's about protecting their alliance, their business interests."

Sofia's expression turned knowing. "Welcome to high society, where even apologies are transactions. But that doesn't make what they did any less wrong, and it doesn't mean you shouldn't be here to receive what you're owed."

The ballroom continued to fill with Manhattan's elite.

"I need to use the restroom before this starts," I said. "And maybe get some water—my throat is so dry."

Sofia nodded, rising to help. "There should be a lounge area near the back with refreshments. Come on, we have about fifteen minutes."

I waved off the attendants. "I can walk short distances now. The wheelchair is mainly for longer distances."

We navigated around the seating area, following a discreet sign toward "VIP Amenities" down a carpeted corridor. The noise of the ballroom faded, replaced by muffled quiet.

"This is much better," I said, breathing easier. "I just needed a minute away from all those staring eyes."

"Completely understandable," Sofia agreed. "Though you were handling it like a pro. Very dignified—Dad would be proud."

The corridor opened into a small lounge with plush seating, a refreshment station, and restroom doors. The space was blessedly empty. I made my way to the table, grateful for the chance to collect myself.

I had just opened a water bottle when I heard voices drifting from around a corner—familiar voices that made me freeze.

"—stop crying, Vanessa. Your mascara is going to run, and then you'll look even worse on camera."