CHAPTER 4: BECOMING THE MASK

The morning light poured in through the cathedral-tall windows, golden and indifferent.

Eva opened her eyes slowly, blinking against the unfamiliar softness of the bed. For a moment, she didn’t remember where she was. The silk sheets. The silence. The emptiness beside her.

 

Then it hit her again the wedding, the suite, the absence of Jeremi , and the way her own tears had salted the bathwater hours before. It was not a dream afterall.

 She sat up, drawing the covers around her. Her skin still smelled faintly of rose oil. Her hair was tangled, her body sore not from passion, but from tension.

 A soft knock came.

 She stiffened. Her first instinct was to hide.

“Enter,” she said weakly.

 It wasn’t Jeremi. It was Beatrice her new personal Assistant. Her dad had made sure Beatrice went with her, just so that she does not make mistakes.

Beatrice stepped inside with the same calculating calm she always wore. Dressed immaculately in a black tailored suit, she held a white envelope in one hand and a tablet in the other.

 “Good morning, Mrs. Moretti.”

 

Eva felt that name wrap around her like a net.

She offered her the envelope. “This is your schedule for the day. You’re expected at a private charity brunch at noon. The Moretti Foundation. The press will be present.”

 She opened the envelope slowly. A gold-embossed itinerary greeted her. Hair. Makeup. Dress fitting. Security briefing. Everything was planned.

 “What if… I’m not ready?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Beatrice raised an eyebrow. “Then you’ll have to become ready. You carry the name now. The public has expectations. So does Mr. Moretti .”

 She lowered her gaze, fingers tightening around the paper.

“Mr. Moretti is still at the Brooklyn site. He may not return until evening,” Beatrice added, as if that would settle her nerves.

 It didn’t.

 Beatrice studied her for a moment. “You looked... unwell last night. Was it the staff?”

 “No,” she said quickly. “They were fine.”

 “You didn’t sleep well.”

 “I didn’t sleep much at all.”

 Beatrice softened just slightly, not enough to be called kind, but enough to feel human. “I understand this is… a transition. But no one outside this suite must suspect that. If you need help navigating this world, you come to me.”

 Eva glanced up, surprised. “Why?”

 “Because it’s my job to keep you from making a mistake that could cost Mr. Moretti and your dad more than money.”

 

There it was. Not friendship. Just duty. Still, it felt like more kindness than she’d received since her sister died.

 Thirty minutes later, Eva was standing in front of a floor-length mirror while a team of stylists buzzed around her.

A white Dolce & Gabbana dress clung to her frame. Her hair was swept into a soft chignon, and diamonds sparkled on her ears on loan, worth more than any property her father had ever sold.

 She looked like she belonged.

 But inside, she was hollow.

Beatrice stood nearby, reviewing notes on a tablet. She didn’t look at her like a woman. She looked at her like a product going to market.

 “Smile when cameras are near,” she said. “Keep your answers brief. Don’t mention the convent. Or your sister. Or anything personal. You are Mrs. Ellen Moretti now.”

She turned from the mirror.

 “But what if I forget who I really am?”

 Beatrice looked up.

 

“Then don’t.”

She closed the tablet with a snap.“Your car is waiting.”

 The convoy of luxury cars rolled through the Upper East Side with silent power. Eva sat in the back of the second black SUV, hands folded tightly in her lap, trying to breathe through the panic blooming in her chest.

 Beatrice sat opposite her, legs crossed, eyes scanning her phone. She looked entirely unaffected. Like this was just another day at the office.

 Outside the tinted windows, cameras flashed. Reporters leaned over barricades. Influencers preened on the carpet. And then she heard it.

 “Mrs. Moretti! Over here! Look this way!”

 

The title hit harder than the flashes.

 The venue was a modern rooftop garden laced with ivy, champagne towers, and curated perfection. Waiters floated through the crowd with crystal glasses and foie gras canapés. As Eva entered, arm hooked in Beatrice’s for support, she just didn't know how the heels work . Conversations hushed and heads turned.

She was stunning delicate, polished, unreadable. A woman in Chanel whispered, “She’s so... reserved.”

 “Elegant,” another replied.

“She doesn’t speak much,” said a third.

 But Eva heard every word.

She smiled softly, just as Jeremi had instructed. Briefly. Gracefully. She walked like a statue come to life.

She was being introduced to the board of the Moretti Foundation when it happened.

 Eva had barely made it past the second round of introductions when she felt their eyes on her sharp, evaluating, and amused.

 

She turned.

Two women approached her like they owned the air around them. One in a backless champagne-colored gown with a slit that defied gravity, the other in tailored silk and emeralds that clung like armor.

 They were stunning. Famous. And clearly not here to make friends.

 “Eva, darling,” the one in champagne drawled, her smile too bright. “You’re so much more delicate in person.”

 Beatrice, sensing danger, stepped slightly closer but said nothing.

 “I’m Danica,” the woman continued. “Jeremi and I dated back when he had that wild phase. Remember that, Maya?”

 Maya didn’t blink. “Briefly.”

 

The other woman, taller and colder, offered her hand with a smirk. “Maya. He proposed to me once… but I wasn’t ready to be tamed.”

 Eva’s hand lingered in hers a second too long. Maya didn’t let go until she’d finished scanning Eva from head to toe.

Danica leaned in slightly. “You must have something very special, Ellen. Jeremi isn’t exactly... the marrying kind.”

 Eva smiled, small and soft, keeping her voice neutral. “Maybe he just needed the right kind of quiet.”

 Danica’s smile slipped for a second.

 

Maya raised her glass. “Enjoy the spotlight, sweetheart. It moves fast.”

 

They walked away, perfume trailing behind them like expensive venom. Eva’s heart was pounding. But she didn’t show it.Her face remained composed, her posture perfect.She’d been taught how to withstand spiritual trials. But this—this was war in stilettos and red lipstick.

And just immediately  A voice behind her said, “Sister—?”

Eva’s breath caught.

It wasn’t loud. Just a soft, confused question from someone who must’ve known her. Someone who recognized her face, not her new name.

 She turned slightly heart in her throat.It was an older woman. A donor. Catholic. She held a rosary in her hand and stared at Eva with a mix of awe and hesitation.

 Eva’s smile froze.

 “I’m sorry?” she said gently, voice carefully neutral.

 The woman blinked. “Oh… forgive me. I must’ve mistaken you for someone from St. Agnes.”

 Eva forced a breathy laugh. “I get that a lot.”

 Beatrice stepped forward immediately, placing herself subtly between them.

 “Mrs. Moretti only recently returned from Europe. Shall I escort you to your seat ma’am?”

 The woman nodded, embarrassed, and allowed herself to be redirected. Eva didn’t speak again for the next twenty minutes. Her palms were sweating. Her chest tight. She kept smiling.

But her mind screamed.

 Back in the car, she sat in silence. Beatrice didn’t speak until the doors locked.

 “You handled that well.”

 Eva kept her eyes on the window. “That woman… she knew me.”

 “She thought she did. But you corrected her. That’s what matters.”

 She turned slowly and whispered to herself. “How many times will I have to lie before it becomes the truth?”

 Beatrice didn’t show any suspicion. She just looked at her. And for the first time, there was no instruction in her gaze.

 Just the quiet, hard truth of the world she now lived in.