Chapter 3 The Trap at the Charity Gala

# Chapter 3: The Trap at the Charity Gala

Three weeks into their engagement, Noelle had developed a grudging routine. Mornings were spent with Milo's PR team, crafting their love story for public consumption—how they'd met at a fundraiser for children's causes, their whirlwind romance, their shared passion for helping the vulnerable. Afternoons were dedicated to etiquette refreshers and briefings on Milo's business associates. Evenings featured carefully orchestrated public appearances where they played the besotted couple.

Tonight was different. Tonight was the Dennis Foundation Annual Charity Gala, and Milo had insisted she take the lead as hostess.

"It's your debut as the future Mrs. Dennis," he'd explained that morning, not looking up from his tablet as they shared a silent breakfast. "The foundation raises funds for orphanages worldwide. Your background makes you the perfect spokesperson."

Now, standing before the mirror in her suite, Noelle barely recognized herself. The woman staring back wore a custom Givenchy gown in deep emerald that matched Milo's eyes—a deliberate choice by his stylist. The dress hugged her figure before cascading to the floor in liquid silk, with a modest slit revealing just enough leg to be elegant rather than provocative. Diamonds glittered at her throat and ears—on loan from the Dennis family collection, as Milo had pointedly informed her.

A knock at the door preceded Richards, who entered with his usual military precision.

"Mr. Dennis asked me to deliver this, madam." He presented a velvet box.

Inside nestled an emerald and diamond bracelet that matched her necklace. The stones were clearly antique, the setting intricate and clearly valuable.

"His grandmother's," Richards supplied, his expression softening fractionally. "He requested you wear it tonight."

The gesture might have seemed romantic if Noelle hadn't spotted the tiny indicator light nestled among the stones. Not just jewelry then—a tracking device disguised as a family heirloom.

"How thoughtful," she murmured, allowing Richards to fasten it around her wrist. The weight of it felt like another chain binding her to Milo.

Downstairs, the mansion had been transformed. The normally austere great hall now sparkled with tasteful decorations, while a string quartet played softly in the corner. Catering staff—all thoroughly vetted and watched by Milo's security team—circulated with champagne and hors d'oeuvres.

Milo awaited her at the bottom of the staircase, impeccable in his custom tuxedo. For a moment, watching him charm an elderly couple, Noelle could almost forget who he really was—the man who had essentially blackmailed her into this arrangement, who planted weapons under her pillow and tracking devices in her jewelry.

His eyes found hers as she descended, and something in his expression shifted. He excused himself from his conversation and moved to meet her, taking her hand to guide her down the final steps.

"You look stunning," he said, voice low enough that only she could hear. "The bracelet suits you."

"As does the tracking device inside it," she replied through a fixed smile.

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His lips quirked. "Practical and beautiful—like its wearer."

Before she could retort, the first wave of guests demanded their attention, and they slipped into their well-rehearsed roles: the philanthropic power couple, deeply in love and dedicated to making the world better through their immense wealth and influence.

An hour into the event, Noelle had charmed bank executives, tech moguls, and Hollywood stars. She shared carefully scripted stories about the orphanage, her passion for child welfare reform authentic enough to move several guests to increase their donation pledges on the spot.

"You're a natural," Milo murmured, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back as they momentarily stood alone. "They're eating out of your hand."

"I've had practice playing roles," she reminded him. "Though usually to bring criminals to justice rather than to extract money from the wealthy."

"Tonight, you're doing both." His eyes scanned the room with calculated precision. "Your nine o'clock—the man in the Tom Ford tuxedo with the blonde."

Noelle casually shifted her position, using a sip of champagne to cover her surveillance. The man in question was in his fifties, distinguished-looking with silver temples and a practiced smile that didn't reach his cold eyes. The blonde with him was at least twenty years younger, draped in designer wear that somehow still managed to look tacky.

Recognition hit her like a physical blow. Viktor Sokolov. Russian national, suspected of running a human trafficking ring across Eastern Europe and Asia. She had investigated him three years ago, but he'd slipped away before they could gather enough evidence for an arrest. What was he doing at Milo's gala?

"You know who he is," Milo observed, watching her reaction carefully.

"Why is Viktor Sokolov in your home?" she asked, keeping her voice level despite the fury building inside her. "He traffics young girls across borders."

"I'm aware of his extracurricular activities."

"And you invited him anyway?"

Milo's fingers pressed slightly harder against her back, a warning. "Know thy enemy, Noelle. Besides, he donated two million to the foundation last year."

"Blood money," she hissed.

"Money that helped build a new dormitory at your orphanage," he countered smoothly. "Now smile. They're coming over."

The next few minutes tested every ounce of Noelle's undercover training. She shook Sokolov's hand, accepted his kiss on her cheek, and pretended not to notice the way his eyes lingered inappropriately on her figure.

"Milo, you've been hiding this treasure," Sokolov said, his accent thick but his English perfect. "No wonder you rushed into an engagement."

"When you find the right woman, why wait?" Milo replied, slipping his arm around Noelle's waist.

"Indeed. May I introduce Katerina?" Sokolov gestured to the blonde, who offered a vacant smile and a limp handshake.

Noelle recognized the signs immediately—the slightly dilated pupils, the subtle tremor in her hands, the way she constantly looked to Sokolov for approval. This woman wasn't just arm candy; she was being controlled, possibly drugged.

"Lovely to meet you," Noelle said warmly, squeezing the woman's hand in what she hoped conveyed solidarity. "That's a beautiful dress."

"Viktor chose it," Katerina replied softly, her accent much thicker than Sokolov's.

"Katerina has excellent taste in benefactors," Sokolov laughed. "As do you, Miss Bates."

"Mrs. Dennis, soon enough," Milo corrected, his tone light but with an undercurrent of steel.

"Of course, of course. My apologies." Sokolov raised his glass. "To your upcoming nuptials. May they be... profitable for all involved."

The conversation continued, revolving around Sokolov's shipping business—his legitimate front—and the foundation's work. Throughout, Noelle observed Katerina, noting her restricted movements and fearful glances. When the young woman excused herself to visit the ladies' room, Noelle followed.

Inside the opulent bathroom, Katerina was dabbing at her nose with a tissue, her hands shaking.

"Are you alright?" Noelle asked, switching to Russian.

Katerina's head snapped up, fear flashing across her features. "You speak—"

"Yes," Noelle replied in the same language. "Are you in trouble? I can help."

For a moment, hope flickered in the young woman's eyes, but it quickly died. "No one can help. He owns me."

"I used to be police," Noelle whispered urgently. "I can get you protection."

Katerina gave a bitter laugh. "You think I don't know who you are? Everyone in Viktor's circle knows about the detective who almost caught him. He's been watching you for years." She leaned closer. "Be careful. He's not here for charity."

Before Noelle could press further, the bathroom door opened, and another guest entered. Katerina immediately straightened, switched to English, and made a show of admiring Noelle's bracelet before departing.

When Noelle returned to the gala, her mind was racing. Sokolov knew who she was. Was that why Milo had invited him—as some twisted test? Or was there a deeper connection between the two men?

She found Milo deep in conversation with the mayor, seamlessly inserting herself into the discussion while scanning the room for Sokolov. She spotted him near the bar, watching her with undisguised interest while Katerina stood silently beside him.

The evening progressed with speeches and the formal donation announcements. Noelle delivered her prepared remarks about the foundation's work with orphanages, earning genuine applause and more pledges. Throughout it all, she felt Sokolov's eyes on her, assessing, calculating.

Near midnight, as the event began winding down, Milo guided her to a quiet corner of the terrace. The night air was cool against her skin as he pulled her close, ostensibly for a romantic moment away from prying eyes.

"You've been watching Sokolov all night," he murmured against her ear, his breath warm on her neck. "Planning an arrest in the middle of my gala?"

"You knew exactly who he was when you invited him," she countered. "Why?"

Instead of answering, Milo turned her in his arms so her back was against his chest, both of them facing the party through the terrace doors. His hands rested possessively on her waist as his lips brushed her temple—a display of affection for anyone watching, but his next words froze her blood.

"The woman in the red dress by the east entrance," he whispered. "Look casual."

Noelle let her gaze drift naturally across the room, spotting the woman—mid-forties, elegant in crimson silk, with sharp eyes that didn't miss much.

"What about her?" she asked, maintaining her smile.

Milo's fingers tightened slightly on her waist. "She has your colleague's police badge in her pocket."

Shock rippled through her, but years of undercover work kept her expression neutral. "Which colleague?"

"Detective James Ward. Your former partner. He's been outside in a surveillance van all evening, thinking we don't know he's there."

Noelle's mind raced. James was here? Why would he be surveilling Milo's gala? And how did this woman have his badge?

"If you're lying—"

"I never lie when the truth is more effective," Milo interrupted. "The woman is Sokolov's security chief, Irina Petrov. Former FSB. She took the badge from Detective Ward approximately forty minutes ago when he tried to enter the grounds posing as catering staff." His lips brushed her ear again. "Your former department has been watching me for months. Did you know?"

She didn't answer, which was answer enough.

"I thought so." His voice held no accusation, only calm certainty. "The question is whether they sent you, or if our arrangement was a coincidence they're now trying to exploit."

"I'm not working for them," she said truthfully. "Not anymore."

"Hmm." His noncommittal response made it clear he wasn't entirely convinced. "Sokolov is leaving. I suggest you say goodbye like the perfect hostess you've been all evening."

With his hand at the small of her back again, Milo guided her inside. They bid farewell to Sokolov and Katerina, exchanging pleasantries that felt surreal given what Noelle now knew. As Sokolov kissed her cheek again, he whispered in Russian, "Until we meet again, Detective."

After the last guest departed, Noelle kicked off her heels and sank onto a sofa in the now-empty great hall. Milo loosened his bow tie and poured two glasses of scotch, handing one to her before taking a seat in the armchair opposite.

"Your performance exceeded expectations," he said, raising his glass in a mock toast. "The donation total is nearly double last year's."

"Is that all you care about? Money?" She took a long sip of the scotch, welcoming the burn. "You invited a known human trafficker into your home."

"I invited many criminals into my home tonight. Politicians, corporate tax evaders, insider traders—Sokolov is merely more direct in his criminality."

"He's a monster who sells women and children."

"Yes." Milo studied his drink. "And now we have his fingerprints on multiple glasses, his voice recorded making several incriminating statements to other guests, and his DNA from the cigars he enjoyed on the terrace."

Noelle stared at him. "You were gathering evidence?"

"Let's just say I have my own reasons for wanting Sokolov's operations disrupted."

"Why not just turn him in?"

Milo's laugh held no humor. "With what evidence? The word of an ex-detective who left the force under mysterious circumstances? Besides, Sokolov has protection in high places."

"So what's your plan?"

"That's not your concern."

Anger flared through her exhaustion. "It became my concern when you dragged me into your schemes. What about James? Is he safe?"

"Your former partner is currently being escorted off my property, badge returned, with a warning. No harm done."

"And the woman, Katerina?"

Something like respect flickered in Milo's eyes. "I noticed your conversation in the ladies' room. Very touching, your offer of help."

"You have cameras in the bathrooms?" Disgust colored her voice.

"Audio only, for security purposes."

"That's illegal."

"So is much of what happens in this house." He finished his scotch and set the glass aside. "Katerina Orlova, age twenty-four, former economics student from Saint Petersburg, 'recruited' by Sokolov's organization three years ago. Currently addicted to a designer drug of Sokolov's own creation that ensures compliance."

The clinical way he recited the woman's circumstances made Noelle's skin crawl. "You know all this and do nothing?"

"I didn't say I was doing nothing." Milo stood, buttoning his jacket. "Check your clutch."

Confused, Noelle opened her small evening bag. Inside, nestled beside her lipstick, was a USB drive she hadn't placed there.

"What is this?"

"Insurance," Milo replied. "I suggest you review it before our meeting with the wedding planner tomorrow."

After he left, Noelle stared at the drive, suspicion warring with curiosity. Finally, she retrieved her laptop—one she'd purchased herself, not the one Milo had provided—and plugged in the drive.

The files loaded quickly: documents, photographs, financial records. She clicked through them with growing horror. It was her own undercover dossier—operations she'd run, cases she'd built, her entire career laid bare. Including Barcelona. Especially Barcelona.

The final file was a video. With trembling fingers, she clicked play.

The footage showed her former police captain meeting with Sokolov in a private club room, exchanging documents for a thick envelope. The audio was crystal clear.

"The Dennis investigation stops now," Sokolov was saying. "And you keep your pet detective Bates away from my business."

"Bates is out," her captain replied. "Took early retirement after that Barcelona mess. She's no threat to anyone now."

The video continued, revealing a conspiracy that went all the way up to the assistant district attorney—all of them on Sokolov's payroll, all of them working to protect his trafficking operation while using Milo Dennis as a convenient distraction for any investigators getting too close to the truth.

By the time the video ended, Noelle felt physically ill. Her entire career had been undermined by the very people she'd trusted. Her pursuit of Milo Dennis—the case her department had been building for years—was nothing but a smokescreen to protect Sokolov.

And somehow, Milo had known all along.

She ejected the drive and slipped it into the pocket of her robe, mind reeling with implications. If Milo wasn't the criminal her department had painted him to be, then who was he really? And what game was he playing by forcing her into this marriage?

As she finally crawled into bed, exhaustion overwhelming her, Noelle's hand once again found the knife beneath her pillow. The inscription mocked her: "To my beloved wife, Milo."

Wife. Asset. Pawn. She was no longer certain which role she was playing in Milo Dennis's elaborate chess game. But one thing was becoming increasingly clear—the board was much larger and more dangerous than she had ever imagined.