CHAPTER 9 – GRILLED THOROUGHLY.

~Chiara.

“Welcome to the circus, Chiara,” Amelia murmured under her breath before gliding gracefully back to her seat.

I waited for Alex’s reaction — surely, he’d be furious at her for touching him like that.

Nothing.

If anything, he looked… lighter. Happier.

“Amelia?”

“What?” she drawled, peering up at him through those long, impossibly perfect lashes.

“Please behave,” he said flatly.

She let out a soft laugh. “Okay, but you know me. No promises.”

She whispered the last part with a teasing smirk, and he actually chuckled — pulling out a chair for me.

I sat down stiffly, sneaking a look at Margaux. Instead of disapproval, she seemed almost delighted by their playful exchange.

In no time, dinner began — though it felt less like a meal and more like an interrogation disguised as polite conversation.

Margaux grilled me on everything.

My parents.

My background.

My education.

My financial history.

My job.

And for every answer I gave, her reactions dripped with quiet condescension — like she was tallying points to prove I didn’t belong here.

Her expression screamed: too ordinary, too common, too lowly for my son.

A familiar ache welled in my chest — that same shame I’d felt years ago, watching my parents skip dinner just so I could have the last egg in the house.

The taste of poverty. Of humiliation.

I straightened my back. Enough was enough.

I wasn’t going to let this woman reduce me to nothing.

“Yes, Mrs. Carrington,” I said, forcing a steady smile. “I actually love my work. In fact, my company’s been developing a proposal for months now — one that might interest the hospitality division of the Carrington Group.”

Margaux’s entire demeanor changed. Her spine went rigid, eyes flashing sharply toward Alex.

“You knew about this?” she asked, her tone laced with accusation.

Alex sighed. “That was after I married her, Mum. And please, can we not do this?”

“Wait, what?” she interrupted, her voice rising. “She’s pitching to us? Can’t you see she’s trying to use your influence to bypass due process?”

The air went still.

Her words hit like a slap.

In two sentences, she’d called me a gold digger.

My heart hammered with disbelief.

All my life, my parents had taught me the value of earning everything through hard work — every tuition payment, every job, every ounce of dignity. They’d sacrificed so much to make sure I never had to beg or take shortcuts.

And now, this woman had just insulted all of that.

I lifted my head, meeting her eyes. Margaux leaned back in her chair, a smug little smile tugging at her lips, certain she’d struck a nerve.

Amelia, of course, was grinning openly — enjoying the show.

Then Alex turned to me. His gaze caught mine — those beautiful tricolored eyes searching, questioning, waiting.

I bit my lip to stop it from trembling.

A sharp clatter broke the silence. Alex had dropped his cutlery. He calmly picked up a serviette, wiped his mouth, and tossed it onto his plate.

“Mum,” he said tightly, “apologize to Chiara. Now.”

The words came out low but firm — a quiet thunder that made the room freeze.

Margaux’s head snapped toward him. “What?” she barked, clearly stunned.

Before Alex could say another word, I reached out and caught his arm.

“No,” I said softly. “I’ve got this.”

I’d fought my own battles all my life. I didn’t need him defending me — not here, not against his family. If he did, they’d only accuse me of manipulating him.

I faced Margaux squarely.

“It’s only natural that you’re worried about your son’s hasty choice of a wife, Mrs. Carrington,” I said evenly. “But the answer to your question is no. My team’s work speaks for itself. Our proposal was submitted to the Carrington Group long before Alexander and I ever became… acquainted.”

I took a deep breath, keeping my voice steady.

“If my company wins that contract, it will be on merit — not because I married the CEO. I love my job, and I value my professional integrity above everything else.”

Margaux blinked, momentarily thrown off by my calm defiance. I caught the flicker of disbelief on her face and felt a surge of quiet pride.

“We’ll see about that, Ms. DeLuca,” she said finally, recovering her poise. “The Carrington Group, as I mentioned earlier, does not tolerate even the perception of favoritism.”

She paused dramatically, slicing into her steak. The clink of her knife echoed like a warning.

I watched her chew slowly, every instinct in me telling me I wasn’t going to like what came next.

“And so,” she said, swallowing and dabbing her lips with a napkin, “with that being said… I’ll have to ask you to quit your job — first thing tomorrow morning.”