Emerald Night

POV Aitana

The muffled murmur of the crowd drifted through the armored glass of the Maybach limousine. Ahead, the Grand Metropolitan Theatre rose in stately stone splendor at the heart of the central avenue, a fifty-meter red carpet sweeping upward to its gilded doors. Hundreds of accredited photographers, camera crews from major international networks, and the nation’s most powerful figures waited behind velvet cordons.

Settled into the ivory leather seat, I drew a slow breath to steady my racing heart. Liquid emerald silk fell cool and heavy against my legs, caressing my skin like a whisper. From my ears, long drop earrings of Colombian emeralds and flawless diamonds caught every shift of light — a radiant declaration of the place I had come to claim, head held high.

“You are so breathtakingly beautiful, Aitana”, Sebastian’s deep, rough voice broke through the quiet.

I turned toward him. He wore a bespoke black tuxedo with silk lapels, cut by Milan’s finest tailors. His ruffled white dress shirt heightened the warmth of his skin and the breadth of his shoulders, while platinum cufflinks bore the family monogram. His dark hair was combed back with sharp precision, leaving his gaze clear — intense, dark, hungry — seeing right through me with a single look.

He reached for my hand, large and warm, folding his fingers gently through mine.

“Ready to show them exactly who you are?” he asked, brushing his thumb softly over my skin.

“I have spent six years learning never to bow my head to anyone again, Sebastian”, I answered. My smile was calm, steady, and unyielding — and something wild and proud flared in his eyes as he looked at me. “Tonight we will not be the story they write in their headlines. Tonight we are the ones who decide what is said.”

Sebastian squeezed my hand, pride thrumming between us. He leaned in, his lips brushing the sensitive curve where my pulse beat steady and strong.

“That is my wife”, he murmured against my skin, sending warmth flooding through me. “Remember this: you walk at my side. No petty aristocrat in this city has the right to judge you.”

The limousine glided to a perfect stop at the very start of the red carpet. Valenzuela stepped out and opened the rear door. The moment it swung open, blinding white light exploded all around us — hundreds of flashes firing in a storm of brilliance. Reporters shouted the Belmonte name in a roar that swept across the plaza.

Sebastian stepped out first, moving with the calm, commanding grace of a man who knows the world watches him pass. He buttoned his jacket in one smooth motion, turned back to the car, and offered me his hand.

I placed my fingers in his and stepped out.

The instant my gilded stiletto touched red carpet and emerald silk unfolded beneath the lights, the noise died away — abruptly, unmistakably. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

The gown’s asymmetrical lines draped me in effortless perfection; fabric fell in architectural precision over my right shoulder, baring the elegant line of my collarbone and the curve of my back, while the skirt’s subtle slit revealed the sure, graceful stride of my legs as I walked. My chestnut hair was gathered low and sleek, soft tendrils framing my face and the emerald earrings caught the light, their vivid green mirroring the color of my eyes.

Sebastian slid his arm firmly through mine, his hand resting openly at my waist, a public claim, a declaration of devotion, and a warning all in one. The press erupted.

“Miss Ferrer! This way, please!” photographers called, firing volley after volley of flashes as live television beamed our arrival across the continent.

“Mr. Belmonte! Is the joint presidency official?! What does this mean for the wedding of the year?!”

We did not pause, nor did we flinch. We walked the red carpet together slow, synchronized, unshakeable. With every step, Sebastian held me close, leaning to murmur something soft and private, a smile touching his lips that belonged only to me. We were not two people held together by scandal. We were a force united, powerful, untouchable.

As we reached the marble steps, the society figures waiting in the entranceway fell silent.

These were the very same families who had whispered my ruin; the same women who had closed ranks around the Serranos, certain I would appear defeated, ashamed, or hidden. Instead they saw a woman crowned in Parisian couture, wearing jewels worthy of a museum, and held fast by the most feared and powerful man in the nation.

“Look at them, Aitana”, Sebastian murmured low against my ear, quiet satisfaction in his voice as we climbed the stairs. “They are choking on their own judgments. Not one person in this building dares question your place tonight.”

“Let them get used to the taste”, I replied serenely, gaze steady on the gilded doors ahead. “Because this is only the beginning.”

We reached the top of the steps. Before the grand double doors, two presenters stood waiting with golden microphones, broadcasting the gala entrance live.

“Good evening, Mr. Belmonte, Miss Ferrer”, the presenter said, dipping her head in genuine deference, visibly struck by our arrival. “It is an honor to welcome you to the Annual Consortium Gala. Miss Ferrer, that gown is surely the most extraordinary creation to grace this hall in decades. Financial markets and international press are already celebrating your leadership.”

Sebastian looked directly into the camera, his voice calm and unassailable.

“The Belmonte Group and Ferrer Food Industries join you tonight not only in support of this nation’s most vital causes”, he declared, his hand resting openly at my waist for every viewer to see, “but to affirm that our alliance in business and in life is absolute and indivisible. Aitana Ferrer stands at the helm of this new era, beside me.”

The presenter nodded, admiration clear in her expression. Valenzuela opened the gilded doors. We stepped through into the vast reception hall, crystal chandeliers blazing overhead.

The string orchestra fell silent.

More than five hundred guests, the nation’s oldest and most powerful families, froze mid-step, raised their champagne glasses still in the air, and turned as one to look at us.

The game had truly begun.