Chapter 7: The Gala’s Ghost

The following morning, the sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Adrian’s penthouse, mocking the storm that had raged inside me all night. I’d barely slept, the text message burning a hole in my memory. *Ask him about the recording.* I’d watched him sleep, his features softened, looking less like the infamous playboy and more like the man who’d held my hand in the nursery. But the doubt was a splinter I couldn’t dig out.

Adrian was already dressed, a crisp white shirt doing little to hide the tension in his shoulders. “I have a board meeting,” he said, kissing my forehead. “We’ll talk more tonight. I promise.”

I nodded, forcing a smile. “I have that gallery installation to oversee.”

His eyes flashed with something unreadable. “Good. I’ll have a car take you.”

The gallery was a sanctuary of quiet elegance, a high-end space in SoHo showcasing emerging artists. My boss, a hawkish woman named Patricia, had given me the lead on the upcoming showcase, a massive opportunity. I was arranging a series of abstract bronze sculptures when the front door chimed.

I looked up, and my blood ran cold.

Vanessa. She was a walking cliché of old money—sleek blonde hair, a designer dress that cost more than my monthly rent, and a smile that was all sharp edges. She sauntered in, her heels clicking against the marble like a countdown.

“Mia,” she purred, drawing out my name. “I was hoping I’d catch you. I wanted to see the little gallery that’s been keeping you so… busy.”

“What do you want, Vanessa?” I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.

“To warn you,” she said, circling a sculpture. “Adrian is a master of the grand gesture. But he’s also a master of the grand lie. He told you he’s changed, I assume? That he can’t wait to be a father?” She laughed, a brittle sound. “He told me the same thing. Once. Right before he got my sister pregnant.”

The air left the room. “Your sister?”

“Oh, didn’t he mention her?” Vanessa’s eyes glittered with malice. “It’s why we broke off the engagement. Not because he was a philanderer, but because he was a *reckless* one. He got her pregnant and paid her to disappear. A tidy little settlement. He’s very good at making problems vanish.”

I shook my head, the bronze sculptures blurring. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” She pulled out her phone, tapping the screen. “Listen to this. It’s from the night of the charity gala, the one where he “rescued” you. He was talking to his lawyer.”

A tinny voice crackled through the speaker. Adrian’s voice, sharp and cold: *“Make sure the NDA is ironclad. I don’t care what it costs. I need her gone before the press gets wind. The last thing I need is another bastard child in the tabloids.”*

The words hit me like a physical blow. *Another bastard child.* I swayed, gripping the edge of a display table. The recording was from that night. The night he’d called me, desperate and charming. The night our child was conceived.

“See?” Vanessa smiled, tucking her phone away. “He was talking about you, Mia. He knew you were pregnant. He wanted to buy your silence before you could become a problem. The romance, the apology—it’s all a performance. You’re just another liability he’s trying to manage.”

Before I could respond, the gallery door burst open. Adrian strode in, his face a mask of fury. He wasn’t alone. Two men in dark suits flanked him, security.

“Vanessa,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Get out. Now.”

“Or what, darling?” she sneered. “You’ll have your goons throw me out? You’ve done worse to better women.”

Adrian’s eyes flicked to mine, and I saw the panic there. He knew. He knew what she’d told me.

“There is no NDA,” he said, his gaze fixed on me. “That recording is a lie. It was doctored. I never said that.”

“It’s your voice, Adrian,” I whispered, the betrayal crystallizing into ice in my chest.

“It’s a manipulated file!” he insisted, stepping toward me. “She’s been threatening me for months. Mia, I swear on the life of our child, I did not know you were pregnant that night. I called you because I wanted to see *you*. I was terrified you’d reject me.”

“Touching,” Vanessa drawled. “But we both know the truth.”

Adrian turned on her, and the raw fury in his expression was terrifying. “You have ten seconds to leave before I have you arrested for harassment and attempted blackmail. And Vanessa?” He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a whisper I could barely hear. “If you ever come near Mia or my child again, I will destroy you. I will take everything your family has built and turn it to ash. And I will enjoy every second of it.”

Vanessa’s smirk faltered. For the first time, I saw a flicker of genuine fear in her eyes. She looked from Adrian to me, then back, before turning on her heel and stalking out.

The silence that followed was deafening. Adrian turned to me, his hands outstretched. “Mia, please. Let me explain.”

But I was already backing away. “You knew about the recording,” I said, my voice hollow. “You knew she had something on you. And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I thought I could handle it,” he said, his voice cracking. “I didn’t want to burden you. I was going to fix it.”

“Fix it?” I laughed, a bitter, broken sound. “Adrian, you can’t fix this. You can’t fix trust. You had your chance to be honest, and you chose to protect your secrets.”

I grabbed my bag, my hands shaking. He reached for me, but I flinched away. “I need time. I need to think.”

“Mia, don’t go,” he pleaded, the powerful billionaire reduced to a desperate man. “I love you. I love our baby. I will do anything.”

“Then give me space,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Prove to me that you’re not the man in that recording. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll have something left to talk about.”

I walked out of the gallery, the spring air hitting my face, but I felt nothing but cold. His words echoed in my ears—*I love you*—but they were tangled with the voice from the recording. *Another bastard child.*

As I hailed a cab, my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. A photo. It was a grainy image of Adrian, his arm around a woman with dark hair, at a bar. The timestamp was from the night of the gala. Hours before he’d called me.

The caption read: *Still think he was thinking of you?*