Page 89 of I'm sorry, Princess
The drive to the Moretti Grand Hotel is quiet, but not the comfortable kind of silence. It’s the kind where emotions are thick in the air, the unspoken weighing heavily between us. Sienna doesn’t force conversation, doesn’t ask me to spill my heart out. She just lets me be. That’s why I love her.
She hands me the AUX cord without a word, letting me take control of the music, probably hoping it will distract me. I unlock my phone and open Spotify, scrolling through my playlists. I pause, staring at the screen.
Gosh. Do I even have one song that isn’t emotionally devastating?
I settle on “Eyes Off You” by PRETTYMUCH. A depressing, slow-burning song about obsession and desire, exactly the opposite of what I should be listening to before walking into a high-society event where he will be.
Sienna notices instantly, but she doesn’t say anything. She just gives me a quick side glance, assessing me, waiting to see if I’ll break down before we even get there. I grip the hem of my dress tightly, as if holding onto the fabric will keep me from unraveling.
I won’t cry. Not now.
As we pull up to the hotel, my breath catches in my throat.
Holy. Fuck.
The Moretti Grand Hotel is a temple of excess. The kind of place that doesn’t just scream money, it purrs it, whispers it, drips it in every gold-accented, marble-covered inch. The circular driveway is flooded with black SUVs, Rolls-Royces, and luxury cars worth more than I’ll probably ever make.
Cameras flash, capturing socialites, businessmen, and New York’s most dangerous men dressed in tuxedos, accompanied by women in gowns worth more than my rent. The air is thick with perfume, whiskey, and the unmistakable scent of power.
The Moretti Grand Hotel is nothing short of a palace, an architectural masterpiece that embodies wealth, excess, and power. The golden glow from the intricate lighting fixtures bathes the entire façade, making it shimmer like a crown jewel against the darkening sky.
The entrance is framed by towering, arched windows, each one exuding an aura of old-money grandeur, while the cascading staircases leading to the massive double doors make it clear, this isn’t just a hotel. This is a kingdom. And tonight, Lorenzo Moretti is its ruler.
Rows of palm trees line the perfectly manicured driveway, their silhouettes swaying under the warm glow of strategically placed lights. Grand fountains erupt from marble basins, their crystal-clear waters dancing under the moonlight, reflecting the soft gold and deep blue hues of the building. The sound of the water trickling down is almost hypnotic, adding to the illusion that this place is untouchable, almost surreal.
From the outside alone, it is evident that this is no ordinary venue. Every inch of this place screams exclusivity. Power. Control.
We step out of the car, and the moment our heels hit the polished pavement, eyes are on us. The rich, thepowerful, the scandal-hungry socialites, they all watch, some with admiration, some with envy, and others with the quiet scrutiny that only the elite can master. Sienna and I don’t need to speak; we walk in unison, exuding confidence, even if deep down, I feel like I’m suffocating.
As we approach the grand entrance, my stomach tightens. My parents are already there. Of course, they are. And they’re not alone. Ian and his father, John Archibald, stand beside them, the perfect little picture of an empire preparing to merge with another. I feel Ian’s gaze before I even meet his eyes. He doesn’t bother hiding the way he scans my body, drinking in every inch of my dress, before doing the exact same thing to Sienna. Subtle, as always. My charming future husband.
“Girls! You look stunning!” my mother exclaims, all smiles, all grace, as if last night never happened. As if she never raised her hand to me. As if she didn't rip a hole in my chest. I don’t acknowledge her, don’t even glance in her direction. Instead, I turn to my father, planting a light kiss on his cheek, my silent question lingering in the air: Do you know what she did? Do you care?
Ian’s father stands beside him, and the moment I meet his gaze, a sickening chill runs through me. He’s looking at me and Sienna the same way Ian did, but worse. It’s subtle, calculated, just enough to be unsettling. He’s the kind of man who’s used to getting whatever he wants, and right now, his interest isn’t just on business. It’s disgusting.
We go through the usual pleasantries, forced smiles, fake interest in my work, in Sienna’s modeling career. The scripted, meaningless small talk of our world. None of them actually care; it’s just a performance, a necessity to keep up appearances. And speaking of appearances, my mother, the ever-perfect hostess, decides that now is the perfect time for pictures.
A photographer is summoned, and just like that, we are no longer people, just props in a carefully curated image. My mother’s perfect family. The Beaumont family standing tall, with Ian and his father right there beside us. This isn’t just a picture, it’s a message. A public statement. A visual confirmation of what has already been decided for me behind closed doors.
The weight of it presses against my chest. This is my fate. This is what they’ve planned for me, wrapped up in gold and lies.
The moment the last flash goes off, Sienna and I don’t waste a second. We excuse ourselves, walking away from the suffocating charade, heading straight to the reception.
“Drinks. Now.” I mutter, and Sienna nods in agreement.
The reception is breathtaking, golden chandeliers hanging impossibly high, casting warm, ambient light across the vast ballroom. The ceiling is adorned with intricate gold-leaf patterns, making it feel like stepping into a palace. The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume, aged whiskey, and the faintest trace of Cuban cigars. The walls are lined with deep, velvet drapes, and the floors gleam like liquid gold under the weight of a hundred designer heels clicking against them. Everything screams power, wealth, and exclusivity. This is Moretti’s world.
A long, extravagant bar stretches across one side of the room, sleek and black, with rows of crystal glasses stacked to perfection. The bartenders are dressed in sharp black suits, moving like well-trained soldiers, pouring drinks with practiced ease. Trays of champagne circulate the room, but I need something stronger.
Sienna and I make our way to the bar, the heavy stares following us with every step. The way men’s gazes roam over us like we’re something to be devoured, it’s nothingnew, but tonight, it feels suffocating. Maybe because I know that to them, I am nothing more than an object, a transaction waiting to be sealed. The future wife of Ian Archibald. The daughter of Thomas Beaumont.
I place my hands on the smooth marble counter, my nails tapping lightly as I order. “Scotch, neat,” I say, surprising even myself. Sienna raises a brow at me but smirks, ordering a dirty martini.
“Not wasting any time, huh?” she teases, but there's an edge of concern in her voice.
“I just need something strong,” I murmur, glancing around the room.
The crowd is filled with the kind of people who run this city, politicians, businessmen, heirs to empires, all dressed in the finest designer suits and gowns. Conversations are hushed, but calculated. Smiles are exchanged, but none of them reach the eyes. Here, every interaction is a move in a game, every word a strategy, every glance a power play.
