Chapter 6 - The Gala of Serpents
Four days later, the Grand Ballroom of the Baltimore Waterfront Hotel was bathed in shimmering gold light.
Tonight was the annual Maryland Medical Philanthropy Gala—a high-society event where city politicians, hospital executives, real estate tycoons, and wealthy socialites gathered to sip champagne and celebrate their charitable donations.
At Table 4 sat Helena Marsh and Cynthia Marsh, wearing matching custom diamond necklaces. Beside Cynthia sat Dr. Julian Vance, dressed in a sharp tuxedo, holding a glass of vintage Dom Pérignon.
“Look at the guest list tonight, Julian,” Helena sneered softly, adjusting her mink stole. “The Mayor is here, the District Attorney is here, and the land transfer for the downtown property closes tomorrow morning. By next week, we’ll be moving to the estate in Palm Beach.”
“And what about your stepdaughter?” Dr. Vance asked under his breath, taking a sip of his wine. “Dileia hasn't shown up at the hospital since Tuesday. She’s been quiet.”
Cynthia scoffed disdainfully. “She’s probably cowering in her tiny apartment, crying over her empty bank account. That pathetic loser doesn't have the guts or the money to challenge us. Forget about her.”
Suddenly, the grand brass trumpets at the entrance of the ballroom sounded a crisp, commanding fanfare.
The chatter inside the room died out instantly. Three hundred wealthy guests turned their heads toward the arched double doors.
Four towering private security guards in dark suits stepped into the room first, clearing a wide path down the central red carpet. Following them walked Vincent Moretti. He looked regal, powerful, and terrifyingly handsome in a bespoke black velvet tuxedo.
But it was the woman on his arm that caused the entire room to catch its collective breath.
Dileia walked beside Vincent, her chin held high, moving with absolute grace.
She wore a breathtaking, floor-length emerald silk gown that clung flawlessly to her silhouette. Around her neck rested a legendary forty-carat emerald and diamond necklace from the Moretti private vault. Her dark hair was styled into an intricate, elegant chignon, and her eyes—once dull with exhaustion—burned with a sharp, brilliant light.
At Table 4, Dr. Vance dropped his champagne glass. The crystal shattered against the floor, spilling sparkling wine across Cynthia’s gown.
“What... what the hell?!” Cynthia gasped, her face turning an instant, ghostly shade of ash. “Is that... is that Dileia?!”
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Helena stood up so fast her chair screeched loudly against the marble floor. “That’s impossible! How is she with Don Moretti?!”
Dileia didn't look at them. She walked beside Vincent down the center carpet, accepting the silent bows and whispers of Baltimore’s highest elite, stepping onto the elevated main stage.
