Chapter 11 - The Gala of Milwaukee’s Wolves
Three days before Christmas, the Marcus Performing Arts Center hosted the annual Winter Solstice Philanthropic Gala—the premier social gathering for the city’s political, commercial, and old-money dynasties.
The grand atrium sparkled with ice sculptures, towering white fir trees draped in silver ribbons, and three champagne pyramids glowing beneath thousands of fairy lights. Over four hundred guests mingled in black tuxedos and designer couture, whispering the latest high-society gossip: the sudden, mysterious departure of Julian Vance to South America, the bankruptcy restructuring of Vance Capital, and the unprecedented corporate expansion of Rourke Holdings.
At 8:15 PM, the glass entrance doors parted.
A sudden, rhythmic hush rippled across the grand staircase.
Walking down the carpeted steps, with her hand resting securely on the forearm of Gideon Rourke, was Tessa Wren.
She was magnificent.
She wore a custom-tailored emerald-velvet evening gown designed with an off-the-shoulder neckline, hugging the dramatic, hour-glass curves of her waist and hips before flaring into a dramatic, sweeping train. Her chestnut hair was pinned up in an intricate, romantic chignon, exposing the delicate line of her throat and a stunning vintage platinum-and-emerald necklace that had belonged to Gideon’s grandmother.
Her posture was flawless. There was no ducking of her chin, no nervous smoothing of her skirts, and no apology in her stride. She walked beside the most feared man in the state like an empress entering her court.
Beside her, Gideon was a titan in a bespoke midnight-blue tuxedo, his white silk pocket square crisp, his pale scar lending him an aura of lethal, aristocratic majesty. His gray eyes never left her, his expression radiating an unyielding, possessive pride that silenced every sneer before it could form.
"They're staring," Tessa murmured under her breath, a tiny, amused smile curving her ruby lips.
"Let them stare," Gideon replied softly, his fingers tightening gently over hers. "Most of them have never seen a real woman before. They're trying to adjust their standards."
Tessa let out a soft laugh that caught the attention of several nearby bank directors.
Leah was standing near the champagne fountain with her junior-executive boyfriend. When Leah saw Tessa—radiant, breathtaking, dripping in antique diamonds on the arm of Gideon Rourke—her glass tilted, splashing vintage Dom Pérignon across her satin shoes.
Tessa met Leah’s eyes across the ballroom.
She did not glare. She did not gloat. She simply gave a slow, gracious nod, lifted her flute of sparkling cider in a quiet toast, and turned her attention back to Gideon.
"You look breathtaking tonight, Tessa," Gideon whispered, his head bending low beside her ear, his warm breath sending an electric tremor across her bare collarbone.
May you like
"It’s the butter, Gideon," she teased softly, looking up into his dark eyes. "It keeps the skin glowing."
"No," Gideon said, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that made her knees feel weak. "It’s the soul. And you are the only one in this room who possesses one."
