Chapter 13
MORETTI GALA
The night air wrapped around my shoulders like silk. The villa sparkled–white stone, crystal chandeliers, and soft candlelight flickering through every marble archway. Classical strings played somewhere near the back garden, and waiters floated through with champagne on silver trays.
It was the first time I stepped into the public eye in three years.8
But not as Savannah Lambert
Savannah Moretti.
I wore red. Not the kind of red that whispered. The kind that bumed. Blood–colored satin that draped like liquid fire, hugging the new shape of me. Stronger shoulders. Straighter spine. And the kind of stare that made old men forget what they were saying mid–sentence.
My hair was darker now. Shorter. Styled into soft waves that framed my face differently. Lashes long, lips painted full, voice trained low and elegant. I didn’t walk. I arrived.
The Moretti charity gala wasn’t just a party–it was a message. An announcement. Every power player in Europe showed up, champagne flutes in hand, masks in place. Most didn’t know what they were walking into.
Zeus Lambert’s allies were in attendance. Not all of them, but enough to matter. I saw them the moment I stepped out of the car–slick suits, loud watches, egos wrapped in cologne. They didn’t recognize me, not at first. But one of them squinted across the ballroom, his drink paused halfway to his lips.
“She looks like someone I used to know…“}
Ijsmiled at him. Just enough to make him uncomfortable. Then I turned away, letting him choke on the memory of someone who used to Cry in comers and wear silence like armor.
I didn’t come here for him.
I came here for her.
Zoraya
She was there, draped in white chiffon like she was attending a wedding and not a Moretti–run charity gala. Her hair was piled high, lipstick too bright, earrings like little chandeliers. She had two women flanking her like bodyguards–gossip girls in expensive shoes with poison tongues
She didn’t recognize me either. Not yet.
Good,
I passed her deliberately near the champagne table. Not fast. Not slow. My elbow accidentally nudged the glass in my hand. The wine didn’t just spill–it splashed right across her powdered face like crimson war paint.
“Oh,” I said, widening my eyes with fake innocence, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see the walking post.”
Her jaw locked.
The women next to her gasped.
“You fucking bitch–Zoraya snapped, dabbing furiously at her face like I’d thrown acid.
One of her little minions stepped forward, voice sharp with entitlement. “Who even are you? You clearly don’t belong here
The second one sneered, cocking her head. “New money, obviously. Or worse–no money. You girls crawl in from the shadows wearing red like it’s armor, hoping some rich idiot sees past your desperation.”
The first one gave me a slow up–and–down scan. “We know your kind. Glitter on the lips, vacancy behind the eyes. Just another dressed–up whore hoping to hook a man with real blood in his veins.”
“Let me guess,” the other one added, louder now, drawing the attention of a few nearby guests. “You heard Luca Moretti was single, didn’t you? Thought you could slide your way into the family like some trashy little leech. You won’t last five minutes, sweetheart. These men eat girls like you for breakfast,
Zoraya stood still, watching me with razor eyes and a slow, cruel smile forming on her lips.
“You think you’re clever?” she said, voice dripping poison. “Coming in here like you own the damn marble? This house wasn’t built for girls like you. It’s a bloodline. A legacy. Not a playground for forgotten little nobodies in discount heels.”
She stepped forward, chin high, the scent of her perfume sharp and expensive. “If you’re smart, you’ll take your knockoff dress, your street–walk confidence, and run before someone reminds you where the real women stand in this city“!!
That was when I felt it–Luca’s presence behind me like a blade unsheathed.
“She’s my sister,” his voice cut across the room, calm but deadly. “And if anyone lays a hand on her, you’ll lose more than your teeth. Be careful who you insult in this house.”
He stepped forward, all tall and tailored in a black suit with the Moretti crest pinned to his lapel.!!
“She’s not just a Moretti,” he said, eyes cold, jaw tight. “She’s old blood. You don’t touch old blood and walk away breathing.”
Zoraja froze. Her eyes flicked from me to Luca and back again. I could see her doing the math. Something in her expression cracked- Just for a second. She knew. Somewhere deep in her manipulative little soul. she knew
She didn’t speak again. Just turned stiffly and walked off, her minions close behind–though this time, they didn’t look so brave. But Zaraya kept looking back. Hatred like acid burned in her stare.
1 didn’t flinch. I just turned my face back to the light and let the photographers do what they came for l
9:58 AM
Flashes went off. Cameras clicked.
And within an hour, it was online.
“Who is the Mystery Heiress Beside Luca Moretti?“}
“The Ghost of Lambert’s Past?”
“Savannah Moretti Debuts in Red at Moretti Gala–Powerful Bloodlines Reclaimed?”
I watched the headlines roll in while sipping champagne beside the balcony. The strings played louder. The air hummed with tension.
And somewhere thousands of miles away, Zeus saw the news.
I didn’t need to see his face. I knew what it looked like.
Confusion first.
Then recognition.
Then horror.
Let him choke on it.
-8
ZEUS POVE
It was nearly midnight, and I couldn’t sleep. Not a damn wink, I’m outside of the country for a damn business meeting.
The hotel suite was dead silent, except for the low hum of the city lights through the windows. I sat there on the edge of the bed, a glass of bourbon in my hand, shirt half unbuttoned, staring at my phone. Not at emails. Not at news. 41 her.!!
At
An old photo of Savannah I had saved in a hidden folder. One I told myself I’d delete a thousand times but never did. I couldn’t. It was taken years ago, some random night after dinner. She was in the passenger seat of my car, laughing at something dumb I said. That soft, real laugh she used to hide when she didn’t want me to see she was happy.
I zoomed in. On her eyes. On that stupid little mole near her lower lip she used to complain about. I used to kiss it on purpose, just to shut her up.
My finger brushed the screen like a goddamn ghost could feel touch.8
What the fuck is wrong with you?!
I told myself again–she’s gone. “She’s gone, Zeus. You buried her. You held the goddamn um. You signed the papers. She died with your name still carved into her grief.”
Then the door slammed open.
4 AM
