Chapter 4 - THE TRUE ARCHITECT OF THE GALA
The ballroom was dead silent.
People were whispering behind cupped hands, casting terrified and awestruck glances between Dominic Moretti and the plus-size coordinator standing near the pillar.
Dominic walked back to Wren. He didn't look like a mob boss anymore; he looked like a man seeking sanctuary.
“Are you working tonight?” he asked quietly.
Wren blinked, clutching her thick color-coded binder against her chest. “I... yes. I’m the lead coordinator for the gala. I organized the vendors, the seating charts, the lighting, the timing...”
Dominic looked down at the massive binder, then back up at her face. He saw the faint dark circles under her eyes, the tired set of her shoulders, and the quiet, unyielding dignity she carried.
“You organized all of this?” Dominic asked.
“Yes.”
“And who was taking the credit?”
“Bianca,” Wren admitted honestly, refusing to sugarcoat it. “She’s the face of the committee. That’s how these galas work. The people with money and social standing take the bow; the people who actually know how things work stay in the background.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened. He reached out and gently took the heavy binder from Wren’s arms, handing it to his driver, Lucas, who stood waiting nearby.
“Not tonight,” Dominic said.
Before Wren could ask what he meant, Dominic turned to face the entire room of three hundred donors, board members, and executives. He raised his voice, commanding absolute attention without shouting.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Dominic announced, his voice smooth and authoritative. “Due to unforeseen administrative changes, the chairwoman has stepped down effective immediately.”
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.
“Furthermore,” Dominic continued, his eyes scanning the room, “the Harrington Children’s Foundation Gala will no longer be under the direction of the board. Moving forward, all operations, funding distribution, and event management will report directly to Miss Wren Holloway.”
Wren’s jaw dropped. “Mr. Moretti, wait, I can’t—I’m just the coordinator—”
“You are Samuel Holloway’s granddaughter,” Dominic said, turning back to look down at her, his eyes warm and fiercely protective. “Your grandfather taught me how to navigate when I was lost in the dark. It’s time someone navigated for you.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. Wealthy donors who had ignored Wren five minutes ago were suddenly smiling, nodding, and whispering among themselves, eager to align themselves with whatever Dominic Moretti endorsed.
Dominic held out his hand—not a command, not a demand, but an open invitation.
“Come with me, Wren,” he said softly. “Let’s show them how a real event is run.”
Wren looked down at her simple blouse, her comfortable walking shoes, and her tired hands. Then she looked at the battered brass compass resting safely in Dominic’s palm.
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For the first time in her life, she didn't feel invisible. She didn't feel like she needed to make herself smaller to fit into someone else's room.
She placed her hand in Dominic’s.
