Chapter 5 - The Morning in the East Wing
When Skylar woke up, the sunlight was pouring through tall, arched French doors draped in pale gold velvet.
She lay perfectly still for several minutes, disoriented by the sheer, overwhelming luxury around her. The bed was wider than her entire bedroom back home, covered in sheets of Egyptian cotton so soft they felt like cool water against her skin. A wood-burning fireplace crackled gently across the room, filling the air with the faint, comforting aroma of burning birch.
Then she moved her head, and the fire in her cheek flared to life.
A sharp, throbbing ache shot from her ear down to her collarbone. She raised a trembling hand, her fingertips brushing the thick, sterile gauze taped over her left cheek. The events of the previous night rushed back over her like a freezing wave: Bianca’s screaming face, the diamond ring tearing her flesh, Dominic’s quiet, terrifying voice, and the incredible, impossible sensation of being lifted in his arms.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
Before Skylar could scramble to pull the silk duvet up to her chin, the door clicked open, and Carmela Rossi stepped inside, followed by a young maid carrying a silver breakfast service.
"Stay right where you are, sweetheart," Carmela said, waving a hand to keep Skylar from trying to climb out of bed.
The maid—a quiet, terrified-looking girl Skylar recognized as one of the laundry assistants—placed the tray across Skylar’s lap with trembling hands, offered a hurried, clumsy curtsy, and practically sprinted out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her.
"They're afraid of you now," Carmela said with a soft, dry chuckle, sitting down in the velvet armchair beside the bed. She was dressed in an exquisite cream wool suit, her gray hair pinned up with pearl combs, looking every inch the queen mother of the Rossi dynasty.
"Mrs. Rossi... I shouldn't be here," Skylar pleaded, her voice raspy and muffled from the stitches. "This is a guest suite. If the other staff see me—"
"There are no other staff, for the moment," Carmela interrupted smoothly. "Dominic dismissed Mrs. Higgins and two of the kitchen girls before dawn."
Skylar stared at her, stunned. "Mrs. Higgins? But she's been here forever!"
"She was a petty tyrant who mistreated the only person in this house who showed me genuine kindness," Carmela said, reaching out to gently pat Skylar’s uninjured hand. "Dominic should have thrown her out two years ago. Her departure was long overdue."
Skylar looked down at the breakfast tray. There was a bowl of warm, pureed oatmeal drizzled with local honey, a pot of fresh chamomile tea, and a small crystal vase containing a single, perfect white gardenia.
Beside the vase lay an official document stamped with a golden corporate seal.
"What is this?" Skylar asked, her fingers hovering over the parchment.
"Open it," Carmela urged gently.
Skylar broke the seal and unfolded the thick cream paper. Her eyes scanned the legal header: Rossi Foundation for Pediatric and Elderly Care. Below it was an official executive resolution appointing Skylar Gallagher as the Senior Administrator of Patient Welfare, with an annual salary of one hundred and eighty thousand dollars, comprehensive health coverage, and full power of attorney over Carmela Rossi's personal domestic medical care.
Skylar’s vision blurred with tears. "I... I don't understand. I don't have a college degree, Mrs. Rossi. I’m a high school graduate who worked the night shift at an Albany motel before this. I can't be an administrator."
"You have empathy, Skylar," a deep voice rumbled from the open doorway.
Dominic stood in the threshold. He had traded his tuxedo for a charcoal cashmere sweater and tailored dark trousers, holding a leather portfolio under his arm. He looked rested, entirely unbothered by the fact that he had severed an alliance with the most dangerous crime family in the state barely eight hours earlier.
He walked into the room, his presence filling the space with that same quiet, inescapable gravity. He stopped at the foot of the bed, looking down at her.
"Empathy cannot be taught in business schools," Dominic said, his dark eyes resting on the bandage over her cheek. "I can hire a thousand Harvard graduates to audit my ledgers and manage my logistics. I cannot hire someone who will throw their body in front of an old woman because they believe her dignity is worth bleeding for."
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"Mr. Rossi... your fiancée's father," Skylar whispered, clutching the document to her chest. "He’s going to come for you. Everyone downstairs was saying it. The Morettis have guns, they have judges—"
"Let them come," Dominic said, a cold, razor-thin smile touching the corner of his lips. "Sal Moretti thinks I agreed to marry his daughter because I was afraid of him. He forgot that in this city, I am the one who decides who eats, who ships, and who survives. He will find out very quickly that touching anything that belongs to me is a fatal mistake."
