Chapter 6 - The Charity Gala
Two weeks later, Breakers Mansion was prepped for its most high-profile event of the season: the annual Newport Children's Hospital Charity Gala, an elite gathering of New England's wealthiest philanthropists, investors, and socialites.
The grand ballroom glittered under thousands of crystal facets, filled with the murmur of designer gowns and clinking champagne flutes.
Pedro stood near the edge of the room, wearing a tailored midnight-blue tuxedo, holding court with a group of international investors. Yet his attention kept drifting toward the grand staircase.
Tonight, for the first time, Ben and Jerry were permitted to attend the opening hour of the gala.
Descending the steps side by side, wearing miniature tuxedos that mirrored their father's, walked the twins. Behind them, keeping a discreet, watchful distance, walked Abigail, dressed in an elegant, understated charcoal evening gown that commanded respect without stealing the spotlight.
Whispers rippled through the crowd of high-society elites.
"Are those the Jacobs boys?" a prominent senator's wife murmured, adjusting her diamond necklace. "I heard they were completely unmanageable—wild, traumatized, locked away upstairs."
Instead of running wild or clinging to each other in panic, Ben and Jerry walked with straight posture, their eyes scanning the room with quiet confidence. They approached their father, stopped at a respectful distance, and waited for an appropriate pause in the conversation.
"Good evening, Father," Ben said clearly, offering a polite nod.
"We've greeted the guests as Miss Hill instructed," Jerry added, his voice steady. "May we be excused to the library to finish our reading?"
Pedro stared down at his sons, a surge of fierce, overwhelming pride swelling in his chest. He excused himself from the investors, knelt down, and placed a hand on each of their shoulders.
"You've both done exceptionally well tonight," Pedro said, his voice thick with emotion. "Go ahead. I'll check on you later."
As the boys walked away toward the library, Pedro stood up and turned to find Abigail standing nearby. Before he could speak, Eleanor Sterling—Clara’s mother, a formidable socialite who had spent two years blaming Pedro for her daughter's death—stepped directly into his path.
"This is a circus, Pedro!" Eleanor hissed, her face flushed with indignation. "Parading those poor, broken boys in front of the press just to polish your public image! And who is that woman supervising them? Some cheap domestic you pulled off the streets?"
The ballroom seemed to hold its collective breath. Several influential investors turned their heads, watching the confrontation unfold.
Before Pedro could unleash the fury that boiled behind his eyes, Abigail stepped forward, placing herself smoothly between Eleanor and the billionaire.
"Mrs. Sterling," Abigail said, her voice carrying across the silent perimeter of the room with absolute poise. "The only thing being paraded here is your profound ignorance. Your grandsons aren't broken. They are thriving. And if you spent half as much time trying to understand their hearts as you do criticizing their father, you would know that."
Eleanor’s jaw dropped so low she looked like she might choke on her diamond necklace. "How dare you—!"
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"Enough, Eleanor," Pedro interrupted, his voice dropping into a lethal, commanding register that silenced his late wife's mother instantly. "Miss Hill speaks for this household. If you cannot respect her, you are welcome to leave my home."
Eleanor glared at Abigail, then at Pedro, before turning on her heel and storming out of the ballroom, leaving a trail of furious whispers in her wake.
