Chapter 10 - The Sovereign Queen of Manhattan
Six months later. Spring in Manhattan.
The annual Grand Gala of the New York Maritime Commerce Association was held in the grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel.
Four hundred of the most powerful people in the city were in attendance—senators, shipping tycoons, federal judges, foreign ambassadors, and corporate chief executives.
The room was a brilliant sea of black tuxedos, silk gowns, crystal chandeliers, and flowing champagne.
Standing near the grand marble staircase at the center of the ballroom was a group of four senior partners from Sterling, Vance & Cole—including the managing partner and the junior partner who had called Beatrice a diversity hire three years ago.
The junior partner was sipping champagne, looking nervous and out of place among the billionaire elite.
"Look," the junior partner whispered, pointing toward the top of the grand marble staircase. "It's Mercer."
The entire ballroom seemed to fall into a quiet, breathless hush.
Stepping onto the top landing was Bastion Mercer.
He looked magnificent—wearing a midnight-blue velvet tuxedo, his dark hair neatly styled, his posture radiating the absolute, terrifying authority of a king inspecting his domain.
Stepping beside him, her hand resting gracefully on his arm, was Beatrice Abbott.
She took every breath out of the room.
She wore a custom emerald-green silk gazar gown designed by a top Parisian house—a gown that hugged her full, magnificent curves with royal, uncompromising majesty. Her thick dark brown hair was styled in glamorous Hollywood waves cascading over one broad shoulder. Around her neck rested a three-strand platinum necklace set with raw dark diamonds, and on her left hand, the storm-grey diamond caught every crystal light in the chandelier above.
She didn't look like an accountant. She didn't look like a former employee.
She looked like the undisputed Empress of Manhattan.
As they walked slowly down the marble staircase together, the crowds parted like the Red Sea, local business leaders bowing their heads in deep, respectful greeting as Bastion and Beatrice passed.
The junior partner from her old firm stared at her with his mouth literally hanging open in shock.
Beatrice paused near the bottom of the stairs, her grey eyes locking onto the junior partner's pale, trembling face.
She offered him a small, polite, perfectly brilliant smile—a smile that contained seven years of receipts, forty million dollars of recovered assets, and the absolute victory of a woman who had refused to shrink for small men.
Bastion leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear as his arm tightened around her waist.
"Is that the boy who called you a diversity hire, my love?" Bastion whispered softly, his silver eyes flashing with a dangerous, dark glint.
"It is," Beatrice murmured, taking a glass of champagne from a passing silver tray.
"Do you want me to buy his firm tomorrow morning and fire him?" Bastion asked casually, as if ordering a cup of coffee.
Beatrice let out a quiet, rich, beautiful laugh that echoed through the grand ballroom, taking a sip of her champagne.
"No, Bastion," Beatrice replied smoothly, leaning her head against his broad shoulder as they walked toward the head table. "Leave him where he is. It's much more entertaining to let him watch us run the world."
Bastion looked down at her face, his silver eyes filled with infinite, unshakeable devotion.
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"As you command, my Queen," Bastion whispered.
And under the warm, glittering lights of Manhattan, the mob boss and the auditor walked forward into their empire—together, unshakeable, and completely unbroken.
