Chapter 8 - The Art of War
The Chicago Design Gala was the most exclusive event of the autumn season, held at the Art Institute of Chicago. The room was filled with politicians, real estate moguls, and high-society elites.
Isabella Morgan arrived wearing an emerald gown, confident that her family's social standing remained untarnished despite the quiet rumors of Luke's marital troubles. She was surrounded by socialites, loudly proclaiming that Sophia was simply "resting at a private retreat."
Then, the double doors of the grand hall opened.
A collective murmur rippled through the ballroom.
Sophia walked in.
She was breathtaking. She wore an emerald velvet gown that matched Isabella’s color but outshone it in every conceivable way—draped elegantly, with an empire waist that flattered her silhouette without revealing a trace of a bump. Her dark hair was swept up, exposing her slender neck, and her diamond earrings were small, modest, and purchased with her own money.
Beside her walked Maya Collins and the mayor of Chicago.
"Isabella, isn't that your daughter-in-law?" a woman whispered.
Isabella's jaw tightened. She marched over immediately, her smile tight and venomous. "Sophia. What is the meaning of this spectacle? You belong at home."
"Good evening, Isabella," Sophia replied smoothly, her voice carrying across the circle of onlookers. "I'm here as the principal architect for the city's new cultural center. I don't believe this is your event to govern."
"You arrogant little—"
"Isabella," a voice cut through the air like a razor.
The crowd parted instantly.
Luke stepped forward. He wore a tailored black tuxedo, but he looked different. The cold, indifferent billionaire had vanished; his eyes were fixed on Sophia with an intensity that burned the air between them.
"Luke," Isabella sighed in relief. "Take your wife home before she embarrasses us further."
"Mother," Luke said without looking away from Sophia. "If you say another word to my wife, you will be escorted out by security."
Isabella gasped, clutching her pearls. "Luke! How dare you!"
"I revoked your board privileges this afternoon," Luke said, his voice deadly calm. "And your credit accounts with the Morgan trust have been frozen. Go home."
The entire ballroom was paralyzed in shock. Luke Morgan had publicly dismantled his own mother.
Isabella, humiliated beyond repair, turned and stormed toward the exit in a flurry of whispers and camera flashes.
May you like
Sophia stood her ground, watching Luke approach her. Her heart raced, but her eyes were steady.
"Sophia," Luke breathed, stopping two feet away, respecting her space despite the agony screaming in his chest. "We need to talk."
