Chapter 3 - THE LIGHTS OF THE ST. REGIS
The St. Regis ballroom was bathed in champagne lighting and filled with the hum of Blackridge’s elite. Crystal chandeliers threw sparkling patterns across three hundred guests dressed in black-tie attire.
At the center of the room, standing beside a ice sculpture shaped like the Veil Urban tower, was Richard Vale.
He held a glass of twenty-year-old scotch, laughing at a joke made by a city councilman. His charcoal tuxedo was flawless, his hair combed back with expensive pomade.
To his right stood Cassandra Moore.
She was radiant in a cream silk dress, a three-carat diamond necklace glittering against her collarbone. She held a glass of champagne, leaning into Richard’s side with the brazen confidence of a woman who believed she had won the long game.
“She won't be an issue, Richard,” Cassandra purred into his ear, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “The hospital social worker called. Evelyn’s still hooked up to monitors. She’s terrified. By tomorrow, she’ll sign the NDA and take whatever modest trust fund you offer her for the child.”
Richard took a slow sip of his scotch, his eyes sweeping the wealthy room. “She brought this on herself. She thought an editorial background gave her the right to audit my accounts. She forgot who built Veil Urban.”
“You built it, darling,” Cassandra whispered, pressing her lips against his cheek. “And tonight, when you announce the Hawthorne acquisition, everyone will know it.”
Near the main entrance, two junior security guards watched the red carpet.
Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the grand foyer swung open.
A cold breeze swept into the humid ballroom, bringing with it the heavy silence of an approaching storm.
A woman walked in.
She wore a gown the color of a midnight sky, her hair pulled back into an elegant obsidian chignon that showcased her long neck. Her posture was regal, her chin lifted high, her hands resting naturally over her seven-month-pregnant bump.
Beside her walked Thomas Mercer.
The room did not instantly explode into noise. It did something far worse: it died into total, absolute silence.
A prominent hedge fund manager near the bar dropped his glass, the crystal shattering against the parquet floor.
“Is that... Thomas Mercer?” someone whispered.
“The billionaire? He hasn't attended a Blackridge event in a decade!”
“Who is that woman on his arm?”
Richard froze mid-sentence. His glass stopped inches from his lips. His jaw went slack as his eyes met mine across the long expanse of the polished ballroom floor.
Cassandra’s smile faltered, her gaze dropping to my dress, then to the man whose face appeared regularly on the cover of Forbes.
I didn't rush. I walked slowly, gracefully, each step calculated to match the slow, steady beat of my heart. My father walked beside me, his arm tucked firmly into mine, his gaze sweeping the crowd like a lion entering a cage of strays.
Richard swallowed hard, his cheeks losing their flush as he tried to reconcile the bruised, weeping woman he had left in the hospital corridor three hours ago with the radiant heiress standing before him.
He took a step forward, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to regain control of the room.
“Evelyn?” Richard stuttered. “What... what is the meaning of this? You’re supposed to be in bed—”
May you like
Thomas Mercer stepped forward, his voice echoing off the high gilded ceilings of the St. Regis, cutting through the silence like a sharp blade.
“Speak to my daughter with respect, Mr. Vale,” Thomas said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Or do not speak at all.”
