Arrival at the D'Angelo Family Gala
The car rolled to a stop in front of the estate's entrance, floodlights and camera flashes already bleeding through the tinted windows. I didn't realize how tightly I'd been holding my breath until the door opened and a wall of noise punched in.
One of Kieran's guards stepped forward, bowing slightly as he pulled the door open. Kieran got out first — calm, unreadable, like the chaos outside didn't concern him. Then he turned back and extended his hand toward me.
I hesitated for half a second. Okay… is he actually doing this? Or is it some weird trap? Whatever… just take his hand. I placed my hand in his, and he helped me out, steady, firm.
The moment the paparazzi realized who had stepped out beside him, the screaming started.
"Mr. D'Angelo! Mr. D'Angelo!"
"Who is she? Is that your girlfriend?"
"Are you done with blondes? Who's the brunette?"
"Is she one of your… mistresses?"
Flashlights burst in our faces. I blinked rapidly. Yep, officially a deer in headlights.
Without a word, Kieran reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a pair of glasses. Sleek, black, mirrored lenses. He put on his own pair, then handed me the second one. I didn't ask where they came from — Kieran was the type of man who had everything prepared, even the things I didn't think about.
"Weird… trust me, you'll be blinded by the lights." He murmured.
I slipped them on, squinting slightly at the flashes. Okay… not as bad as I thought. Probably.
His guards pushed back the crowd, forming a barrier as we moved. Microphones shoved forward. Cameras clicked nonstop. Someone got bold and stepped too close, raising a mic to Kieran's mouth.
"Mr. D'Angelo, the public wants to know — who is she?"
Kieran stopped walking.
My heartbeat tripped. Is he really going to answer?
He looked directly at the man and spoke, voice steady, clipped, leaving no room for interpretation.
"She's my wife. Aurielle Kieran D'Angelo."
Wait… he said that? He actually said it. My name. His name. And… weirdly… it kind of feels good.
The crowd broke.
Screaming. Flashes. Questions fired from every direction, overlapping in a storm of noise.
I felt the weight of every camera turn to me. Breath trapped somewhere in my throat — but Kieran's hand slid to the small of my back, guiding me through the entrance as guards blocked the chaos behind us. His hand. Solid. Quietly claiming me.
The doors closed, cutting off the noise like a switch.
Silence.
I inhaled hard, shoulders dropping.
The venue was nothing like outside — warm gold lights, marble floors polished to a mirror shine, soft music humming in the background. Chandeliers hung like diamonds melting from the ceiling. Rows of socialites drifted past in expensive fabrics, perfume thick in the air.
Everything looked elegant… untouchable.
The last time I'd walked into a D'Angelo event, I hadn't been announced as anyone's wife. I'd been the poor girl in a borrowed dress, shaking while security dug through my bag and pulled out Kendella's missing necklace — the same one Kendella had slipped in just minutes before.
And now… I'm standing here. Announced. Official. His wife. Huh… kind of crazy, but… yeah. I feel it. A little proud. And okay, maybe… kind of important. Don't faint, Aurielle.
The dining hall was already full when we walked in — long table stretched like a runway of judgment. Gold plates. Crystal glasses. Elites seated in perfect posture, eyes snapping to me like I'd interrupted a royal ceremony.
Yeah. Everyone was watching.
Kendella sat near the center, blonde hair curled like a Disney villain who paid extra for blowouts. That smile on her face — sweet, soft, evil as hell. Barbie who eats souls.
I took my seat beside Kieran, trying not to visibly sweat. Socialites leaned in, whispering behind their sparkling wine, loud enough for me to hear.
"Is that really her?"
"She looks so… normal."
"Why would he bring that?"
Cute. Love being everyone's topic of the night.
The servers began bringing food, but nobody cared. Eyes were glued to me like I was tonight's entertainment.
Kieran reached for the whiskey bottle.
Slow. Intentional.
And no one dared breathe.
He poured himself a glass first — the dark amber liquid catching the chandelier light like molten gold. Then, without asking, without looking at me, without blinking…
He poured another.
And slid it toward me.
That small move alone made half the table choke on their own saliva.
His voice dipped low, not meant for anyone but me.
That tone again — the one that felt like it pinned me in place.
"It's called whiskey," he murmured.
I picked up the glass, sniffed it, then tasted it.
Bittersweet. Sharp. Strong.
It burned all the way down — but in a weirdly addictive way.
I poured myself another half glass.
Carefully.
Trying to look like I'd done it a thousand times.
Kieran's head tilted just slightly toward me.
"Careful," he warned, voice barely above breath. "This isn't ordinary whiskey. It gets you high."
I shrugged lightly. "I've handled worse."
His eyes sharpened instantly — curious. Dangerous.
"Oh?" His brow lifted a fraction. "You sure about that?"
I blinked. Realized what I just hinted at.
My past.
My stripping nights.
The drinks men bought me.
The ones I sometimes had to take to survive the tips…
I bit my tongue and looked away before I said something stupid.
Still, I took another tiny pour.
Kieran didn't stop me.
But when I reached — very subtly, thank you — for a third glass, his hand landed on my wrist.
"Enough," he said.
I froze.
His voice wasn't loud — but the whole table somehow heard it.
The tiny dominance in that one word made the air shift.
Under the table, his fingers slid off my wrist slowly.
Above the table, his face stayed cold, bored, unfazed.
But his father?
Oh. His father was watching that small exchange like it was a crime scene.
And then… the first snake made her move.
A woman across the table — diamonds, red dress, face like she practiced smirking in the mirror — placed her wine down with a soft clink.
She tilted her head at me, fake curiosity dripping off her voice.
"We're all just… surprised. A wedding so secret?"
She smiled.
"Almost like you're hiding something, Aurielle."
My stomach dropped straight to my feet.
Oh. So this is how they want to play it.
Before I could breathe, Kieran spoke.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just sharp enough to slice a spine in half.
"We will get married the proper way. You'll get front-row seats, Vivian."
Then he paused — calm, dangerous.
" but I doubt you'll live to see that day. Unless you keep running your mouth."
Her smile froze.
The whole table went tight.
Small win for me.
But the whispers kept spilling.
"She looks so different from his usual women…"
A whisper to one person.
Loud enough for everyone.
Then Contessa — Kieran's aunt — lifted her glass lightly, like giving a toast to my humiliation.
"Of course she's overwhelmed," she said.
"These events are… for people of higher class."
I almost choked on my own breath.
And then came the nuke.
The one nobody was expecting — except me.
Because Kendella is built from pure wickedness.
She smiled. Soft. Innocent. A killer in slow motion.
"Well, of course she's different from Kieran's usual women."
She folded her napkin neatly.
"Kieran married a dancer."
The room froze.
People stopped breathing.
Kendella wasn't finished.
"The first in our elite circle to marry a sex worker."
Her eyes glittered.
"The first in the D'Angelo bloodline to bring in… that."
Actual silence.
Feather-drop silence.
My ears rang.
She lifted her hand to cover her mouth, pretending shock.
"Ooopsie."
And she smiled behind her hand.
My cheeks burned. Tears hit instantly — hot, humiliating. My throat clogged. I blinked fast, but it was useless. They kept falling.
Kieran's chair scraped loudly as he stood.
"KENDELLA."
His voice could've killed someone on the spot.
She flinched. Tried to keep smiling. Failed.
My tears kept dripping, and I hated that I couldn't stop it.
Elias slammed his hand on the table so hard the glasses shook.
"ENOUGH!"
His voice boomed.
"Do you think I'll let this farce continue? This marriage will not stand."
Gasps everywhere.
I bowed my head, tears hitting the tablecloth.
This wasn't embarrassment anymore.
This was humiliation — public execution style.
Kieran didn't look away from his father.
"We're already married, father," he said quietly.
"There's nothing you can do."
The aunt gasped dramatically, hand on her chest.
"Oh dear… I didn't know she had a performing background."
She tilted her head.
"That's… unfortunate."
Small chuckles rolled around the table.
More tears rolled down my face.
Under the table, Kieran's hand squeezed my hand — gently.
Elias pulled a stack of folded papers from his jacket — pictures, my club records, police files, everything.
He threw them on the table.
"You married a dancer."
Another paper.
"A single mother."
Another.
"A gold digger."
Another.
"A whore."
His voice sharpened.
"A stain on our name."
A gasp tore out of me, and I covered my mouth with shaking hands. Tears fell harder. My vision blurred. Kendella watched my breakdown like a movie.
Elias leaned back.
"You will step down as Don — as CEO — if you stay with her."
The table buzzed with scandal.
Kieran didn't react emotionally.
He reacted like a man used to taking lives.
"No," he said. Calm. Dark.
"You stepped down years ago."
"You hold no authority."
"You cannot make any decisions."
"I am the one in charge."
"Kieran, how dare you speak to your father like—" Contessa began.
He cut her off like slicing open a throat.
"Enough."
Eyes cold.
"I've had ENOUGH of your mouth lately."
"Being my aunt doesn't protect you."
Contessa jolted.
"You WON'T dare—"
"Try me," he said.
Then calmly:
"From today onward, you have NO business in our company."
"Your houses, your cars — everything is taken."
Her son shot up from his chair.
"You can't do this! All because of the whore you married—"
Kieran turned, slow and deadly.
"You don't EVER speak about my wife like that."
His voice dropped deeper.
"The next time you do… I'll kill you with my bare hands."
The room gasped.
Someone actually choked.
Kendella went pale — like she saw death walk in.
Kieran leaned forward, voice low, lethal.
"You invited us here to embarrass my wife."
Then he looked around the table — one by one — like he was selecting victims.
"Try it again," he said, "and I won't mind killing you."
Silence. Terrified, bone-deep silence.
He delivered the final line like a verdict on judgment day.
"She is my wife."
"She will be honored."
"Anyone who steps in our way…"
He stared at all of them.
"…won't survive it."