Chapter 4 - The Gates of Gold
The exterior of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel was illuminated by dozens of high-powered spotlights that cut through the cool night sky.
A sea of red carpet stretched from the grand entrance down to the curb, flanked by hundreds of news cameras, reporters, and cheering crowds. The Grand Pinnacle Gala was the undisputed crown jewel of the West Coast high-society calendar—an event where a single handshake could build or crush a corporate empire.
Spencer’s stretch limousine pulled up to the curb.
Photographers went wild, flashbulbs exploding like blinding lightning as Spencer stepped out, dressed in his custom tuxedo. He turned around and gallantly offered his hand to Cassandra, who stepped onto the carpet in a emerald-green ballgown, flashing a brilliant, triumphant smile for the cameras.
Patricia followed closely behind, holding her chin high as if she were a queen surveying her subjects.
"Mr. Albright!" a reporter shouted, thrusting a microphone forward. "Is it true that Albright Enterprises is securing the Crawford Foundation’s green energy grant tonight?"
"We are very confident," Spencer declared smoothly, posing for the cameras with his arms around Cassandra. "Albright Enterprises represents the future of California innovation. Tonight is simply the formalization of our success."
"And who is the lovely lady on your arm, Mr. Albright?" another reporter asked. "We thought your wife was Gwen Vance?"
Spencer’s expression darkened for a fraction of a second before he flashed a practiced, charming smile.
"Gwen and I have separated," Spencer announced loudly, ensuring the press recorded every word. "She was... unable to adapt to the responsibilities and high standards of my world. Cassandra has been my rock through this transition."
Patricia chimed in toward the microphones, "Gwen was a simple girl with no family background. She brought nothing to the table. Spencer deserves a woman who actually belongs in high society."
The crowd murmured, notebooks scribbling frantically. Satisfied with their narrative, Spencer led Cassandra and Patricia up the steps toward the grand entrance.
At the main doors stood six imposing security guards dressed in immaculate black tuxedos, led by the hotel’s head of security, a stern man named Captain Miller.
Spencer casually held out his gold VIP invitation. "Spencer Albright. Table One, right next to the principal podium."
Captain Miller took the invitation, scanned the bar code with a handheld digital terminal, and looked up. The screen flashed a bright, crimson red.
ACCESS DENIED: ACCOUNT SUSPENDED.
Captain Miller’s face remained stone-cold. He stepped back, blocking the doorway with his broad frame.
"I’m sorry, Mr. Albright," Captain Miller said firmly. "Your invitation has been revoked."
Spencer froze, his charming smile instantly vanishing. "What? That’s absurd! Check it again! I am Spencer Albright! I’m the keynote speaker for the green energy grant!"
Cassandra sneered at the guard. "Do you have any idea who he is? Move aside this instant, or my husband will have you fired!"
"Your name has been removed from the guest list by order of the principal host," Captain Miller replied calmly, completely unbothered by Cassandra’s shrieks. "Please step off the red carpet so other guests may enter."
A wave of hushed whispers rippled through the gathered reporters behind them. Cameras began snapping furiously at Spencer’s sudden humiliation at the door.
"Is there a problem, Captain?" a smooth, aristocratic voice called out from inside the foyer.
An elderly man with silver hair, wearing an exquisite midnight-blue tuxedo adorned with historical honor medals, walked out.
Lord Harrington.
"Lord Harrington!" Spencer called out desperately, pushing past Captain Miller’s arm. "Thank goodness you’re here! These incompetent guards are refusing me entry! They claim my invitation was revoked!"
Lord Harrington looked at Spencer with a mixture of cold pity and absolute disdain.
"It was revoked, Spencer," Lord Harrington said flatly. "By my explicit instruction."
Spencer felt as though he had been hit by a freight train. "Why? Lord Harrington, we had an agreement! The two-hundred-million-dollar grant—"
"The grant was contingent on your firm maintaining financial solvency and moral integrity," Lord Harrington interrupted, his voice cutting through the evening air like a diamond blade. "As of six o'clock this evening, Albright Enterprises failed both conditions."
"That’s a mistake! A temporary banking error!" Spencer pleaded, sweat breaking out across his forehead. "I can fix it! Just let us inside so we can sign the documents!"
Before Lord Harrington could answer, a low, powerful engine rumble echoed down the street.
The entire crowd went dead silent.
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A fleet of eight dark-charcoal Rolls-Royce Phantoms, flanked by a full motorcycle police escort, pulled up to the red carpet. Each vehicle bore a small, discrete gold flag on its hood—a crest featuring a crest of an eagle clutching a crossed sword and torch.
The ultimate seal of the Crawford Family.
