Chapter 4: Masquerade at the Metropolitan Museum of Art

The first Monday in May. The Metropolitan Museum of Art Costume Institute Benefit (The Met Gala).

This was the pinnacle of the New York social scene. Fifth Avenue was locked down; flashbulbs poured like rain. On the red carpet, every inch of fabric was inscribed with the lust for money and power.

Dominic made a high-profile appearance with Carmela. Carmela wore a white feather haute couture gown titled "The Dying Swan," with the Alvarez family's ancestral emerald necklace around her neck. The media frantically snapped photos, hailing her as "New York's White Swan."

However, behind the glamour, Dominic felt as if he were plummeting into an ice cave.

The high-frequency strobing of the flashbulbs triggered his post-car-accident PTSD. His vision began to blur, his breathing quickened, and the surrounding cheers morphed into screeching brakes and the sound of twisting metal.

"Dom? Look at the camera! Anna Wintour is looking over here!" Carmela urged him, whispering in his ear, completely oblivious to his distress as she fussed with the angle of her hem.

Dominic shoved her aside and stumbled toward the VIP lounge backstage.

"Sir! You can't go in there!" security tried to intercept.

Dominic crashed through the door and collapsed onto a sofa, clutching his tie with both hands, feeling invisible hands choking his throat. Suffocation drowned him like a tidal wave.

Just as he thought he was going to die there, the door to the lounge pushed open.

A woman entered, wearing a minimalist black evening gown and a medical mask. She was there on standby as a consultant for the top-tier medical security team.

Vanessa recognized Dominic's symptoms instantly. Panic attack, accompanied by hyperventilation.

Without a word, she strode over and dropped to one knee in front of him.

"Look at me." Her voice was calm, low, carrying an unquestionable tone of command.

Through his blurred vision, Dominic saw a pair of amber eyes. Those eyes were too familiar—clear, calm, like ice in the deep sea.

Vanessa reached out and pressed the *Neiguan* point on his wrist. That specific acupressure technique—moderate force, a strange rhythmic cadence—instantly struck the depths of Dominic's memory.

In those painful nights of rehabilitation when he first woke from the coma, whenever the pain made sleep impossible, these hands had soothed him with this exact technique.

"Inhale... exhale..." Vanessa guided his breathing rhythm.

Dominic's breathing gradually steadied. He suddenly grabbed Vanessa's wrist with a backhanded grip, his fingertips trembling. "Is it you... Vanessa?"

Vanessa's eyes showed no fluctuation. With her other hand, she swiftly pulled a sedative from her emergency kit and administered a precise, ruthless injection into the muscle of his upper arm.

"Sir, you have mistaken me for someone else." She pushed him away coldly, standing up to smooth her dress. "I am Dr. C. This sedative will let you sleep for ten minutes, enough for you to regain the sanity needed to face the flashbulbs outside."

With that, she turned to leave.

"Wait!" Dominic tried to stand, but the drug took effect rapidly, making his limbs heavy as lead.

He could only watch helplessly as the black figure disappeared through the doorway. That silhouette was aloof, final, completely unlike the submissive wife in his memories.

But that touch, those eyes... Dominic closed his eyes, his fists clenched tight.

Carmela was lying. The person who had been by his side for those three years was never Carmela.