CHAPTER 94: A WIFE

"Roman didn’t tell you anything either?" Zara arched a brow at Patricia, who shook her head silently.

Zara’s lips curled into a knowing smirk. At first, she looked genuinely confused, but then she clicked her tongue, as if realizing something obvious. "And then again, it would be awkward if your husband told you about your ex’s wedding. He probably kept quiet for your sake." With a shrug, she leaned lazily back into her chair.

Patricia opened her mouth to respond, but a voice cut in.

"Excuse me, ma’am."

Both women turned their heads. A middle-aged woman stood nearby, dressed in a plain maid’s uniform with a blue apron tied snugly around her waist. The faint smell of spices lingered on her, a clear sign she had been cooking.

"Oh, Martha, right? I was told some people would be coming to clean the villa today. Is it only you?" Patricia asked, rising to her feet and walking toward her.

Roman had mentioned it before he left with Kay that morning. Normally, he never bothered with such small details, but lately, he had started sharing everything with her. It warmed her unexpectedly, like she truly mattered. Like a wife. It was almost cute, the almighty Roman humbling himself to do what she asked.

"Yes, ma’am. The others are still inside, busy cleaning. A delivery man dropped this off and said to give it to the villa’s owner." Martha stepped forward, offering a purple envelope.

"Thank you." Patricia accepted it, her fingers brushing over the smooth paper. Her gaze lingered on the envelope, wariness flickering in her chest. No sender. No name. That was odd.

"Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes. You can come in by then," Martha added politely before excusing herself.

"Oh, finally! I am starving. I can’t keep staring at the sky anymore." Zara rose, abandoning her half-finished cocktail and trailing after the maid without a backward glance.

"I will be right in," Patricia called after her. Zara’s only response was a lazy wave over her shoulder. Patricia chuckled softly, shaking her head at her friend’s dramatics.

Her amusement faded as her eyes dropped back to the purple envelope in her hand. Should she open it? Martha had said it was for the villa owner, which should be Roman. But what if it was urgent? What if waiting until he returned was a mistake?

Hesitating only a moment longer, Patricia broke the seal. Inside was a thick, brown card.

’Mr. and Mrs. Blackthorn,’ it read. ’You are hereby invited to the Fashion Exhibition of The Paul Company.’

Patricia frowned, her brows knitting together. "The Paul Company?" She muttered under her breath. The name sounded familiar. Who names a company after their first name these days? But then a sharp jolt of recognition sparked through her. Paul? Could it be that Paul?

Sliding the card fully out, she noticed more. Four glossy tickets spilled into her hand. Her frown deepened. Why four tickets for only two people?

Her gaze returned to the invitation card, eyes scanning quickly.

Date: Tomorrow evening.

Dress code: Victorian Era style.

Color: Black or Blue.

You are allowed to bring two additional guests.

Patricia stared at the words, her pulse quickening. A strange chill crept down her spine. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just some random social invitation.

Yours sincerely,

Paul.

That was the closing line on the invitation card.

"Zara would definitely like this," Patricia mouthed, her best friend instantly crossing her mind. Art had always been Zara’s passion, her escape, her heartbeat. There was no doubt she would be thrilled to attend such an event if invited.

Tucking the four tickets and the invitation card neatly back into the purple envelope, Patricia began walking into the villa.

——

The Following Evening

The night had barely begun, yet anticipation was already thick in the air. A sleek black limousine rolled to a stop at the entrance of the red carpet, drawing the attention of the waiting paparazzi like moths to flame. Cameras lifted, flashes clicked, and voices rose in a frenzy.

"Has anyone seen this car plate before?"

"Looks like we have got a new big shot in town!"

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, whispers layering over one another as every eye latched onto the mysterious car. The air hummed with impatience, who was inside?

Time stretched, each second dragging as though eternity itself lingered in suspense. Finally, with a metallic click, the car door flew open. The first glimpse was not of a face, but of glimmering golden heels, catching the spotlight and stealing the collective breath of the crowd. From that alone, they knew, someone important, someone unforgettable, was about to emerge.

And then she stepped out.

An angel cloaked in darkness, if angels ever dared to wear black.

"Oh my God... we have a new diva in town!"

Her gown was a masterpiece of Victorian grandeur, sculpting her body into living art. The bodice clung with a corset’s merciless precision, cinching her waist into a graceful curve that seemed carved by obsession itself. Black silk cascaded in layers, heavy and rich, the sweep of fabric commanding reverence. But the sanctity of that elegance shattered with a single daring detail, a slit carved high along the side, revealing the smooth expanse of her thigh with every measured step. It was scandal dressed in silk, temptation threaded through refinement. The short lace-trimmed sleeves left her arms bare, a perfect balance between decorum and defiance. She was at once a queen, a temptress, and an enigma draped in shadow.

As the cameras clicked wildly, their lenses desperate to capture her, a tall figure emerged beside her.

A man. No...the man.

Gasps rose like a wave.

"Can this day even get better? Is that not the Don of the doctors? What is he doing here?!"

"Roman Blackthorn?!"

The name alone sent the crowd into chaos. Whispers sharpened into frenzy. Everyone knew him, or at least, knew of him.

His presence was a storm wrapped in velvet. His coat was midnight stitched into form, long and sweeping, flowing with every purposeful step. Worn open, it revealed a satin-black waistcoat beneath, the top buttons undone in a quiet rebellion that set him apart from stiff tradition. A high collar framed the angles of his face, austere and sharp, but the absence of gloves betrayed him...bare hands flexing with an untamed energy, ready to shatter civility at will. A silver chain crossed his chest, gleaming like a secret invitation, while polished boots caught the glint of light with each stride. He was every inch the Victorian lord, yet the undone details hinted at danger, power unmasked, restraint cast aside.

"He has a wife?" Someone hissed. "I thought he was single!"

"Then who is the woman with him?"

The questions only fueled the fire. Together, they walked arm in arm, Patricia’s hand resting lightly against his sleeve, Roman’s gaze fixed forward with the quiet dominance of a man who owned the ground he walked on. The cameras adored them, the crowd couldn’t tear its eyes away. Some gawked at the mysterious woman by his side, while others were simply bewitched by the pair’s combined aura, a flawless clash of elegance and raw power.

Every step was a statement. Every glance, a proclamation.

And just as they neared the end of the red carpet, ready to enter, another car purred to a stop behind them. The sound sliced through the sea of gasps and murmurs, forcing heads to turn, curiosity tugging them away from the dazzling couple.

Something, or someone else had arrived.