Chapter 3 - The Golden Cage
The penthouse occupied the entire top three floors of a glass tower overlooking Central Park. It was modern, sterile, and blindingly opulent—a fortress built of obsidian, marble, and steel.
A team of doctors and stylists was already waiting when Dante escorted me inside. While a female physician cleaned and stitched the cut on my cheek, Dante stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, taking private calls in hushed, authoritative Italian.
“The cut will leave a faint silver scar,” the doctor murmured softly, applying an antiseptic bond. “He requested the best plastic surgeon in the state to ensure minimal damage, Miss.”
I didn't answer. I couldn't care less about my face. My mind was in the ICU unit three miles away, where Leo was sleeping under heavy sedation.
By morning, the news had shattered every social tabloid in New York. Headlines flashed across the television screens in the grand kitchen: MORETTI HEIR DUMPS THORNE HEIRESS AFTER PUBLIC VIOLENCE—MYSTERY WAITRESS SPOTTED AT MORETTI PENTHOUSE.
Dante walked into the room wearing a tailored charcoal suit, throwing a sleek silver smartphone onto the marble island in front of me.
“Your old life is officially over, Maya,” he announced. “As of eight o’clock this morning, Leo has been transferred to a private suite at Mount Sinai under my security detail. Vanessa’s father has already called me seven times threatening a lawsuit.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked, picking up a cup of tea I hadn't dared to touch.
“I’m taking you to the Metropolitan Opera Gala tonight,” Dante said calmly, stepping behind my chair. He placed his hands on my shoulders, his fingers digging in just enough to anchor me. “Vanessa will be there with her father. They think they can corner me and force an apology. Instead, I am going to present you as my fiancée.”
“Dante, I’m a waitress!” I turned to face him, panic rising in my throat. “I don't know how to speak to billionaires. I don't know how to walk in three-thousand-dollar shoes. They will tear me apart!”
“Let them try,” Dante growled softly, bending down until his lips brushed my ear. “You survived four years of starving yourself to buy your brother’s medicine. You survived Vanessa Thorne’s ring. Those pampered parasites in silk and diamonds are nothing compared to you. Wear your scar like a blade tonight, Maya. Because beside me, nobody touches you without losing their hand.”
That night, the Metropolitan Gala was a sea of flashing cameras and blinded eyes. When Dante’s black limousine pulled up to the red carpet, the crowd went silent.
He stepped out first, adjusting his cuffs, before reaching back into the vehicle to offer me his hand. I wore a breathtaking floor-length gown of emerald velvet—a dress designed to cover my bruises while emphasizing the icy diamond choker around my throat. But the most prominent detail on my body wasn't the gown or the six-carat diamond on my left hand.
It was the faint, fresh scar on my right cheek.
The moment my heels hit the carpet, the press exploded into a frenzy of camera shutters and shouted questions. Dante ignored them all, keeping one heavy, possessive hand wrapped firmly around my waist as he guided me up the stairs.
At the top of the grand staircase stood Vanessa Thorne and her father, Arthur Thorne. Vanessa looked radiant in crimson silk, but her eyes were wild with venom.
“Dante!” Arthur Thorne’s voice boomed across the lobby, drawing the attention of dozens of elite onlookers. “What is the meaning of this insult? You parade this common servant around after humiliating my daughter?”
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Dante stopped, his expression turning to stone. He didn't tighten his grip on me, but his presence broadened, instantly dominating the room.
“Arthur,” Dante replied smoothly, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. “You seem confused. Maya is not a servant. She is the future mistress of the Moretti estate. And if your daughter ever raises her hand against my bride again, I won't just cancel our business contracts—I will bankrupt Thorne Global by morning.”
