Chapter 26 - The Traitor in White
High above the subterranean silence of the weavers’ crypt, in the gilded opulence of the Grand Hôtel de Lyon, Evelyn Vance—or rather, Evelyn Thorne, as she had signed the bogus wedding registry—paced the plush Aubusson carpet of Room 402.
The stolen veil lay crumpled in the marble fireplace, half-scorched where she had attempted to burn it in a fit of hysterical rage after the video feed of our dressing-room confrontation had leaked across every social media platform in Europe. Her phone buzzed incessantly against the mahogany vanity table—hundreds of missed calls from high-society friends, corporate sponsors, and our frantic, weeping father.
"Pick up, you bastard," Evelyn muttered through clenched teeth, redialing David Vance’s encrypted burner number for the fortieth time. "You swore the transfer would clear the moment the ceremony concluded. You swore I would be the sole director of the Vance Foundation!"
The line clicked. Silence stretched across the receiver.
"David?" she gasped, her knuckles turning white around the gilded casing. "David, the press is surrounding the lobby! Clara’s friends released the footage of me taking the dress from the vault! My name is ruined—my modeling contracts have been canceled by three fashion houses in Paris within the hour! Where is my payment?"
"Payment, Evelyn?" David Vance’s voice purred through the speaker, devoid of the grandfatherly affection he had used when he first approached her six months ago in that discreet café in Milan. "One does not pay the courier for dropping the parcel in the mud."
Evelyn stopped pacing, her breath catching in her throat. "What are you talking about? I wore the dress! I walked down the aisle! I fulfilled every instruction—"
"You allowed your sister to humiliate you, and in doing so, you forced Clara to tear the outer skirt from the core weave during her escape," David said coldly. "The outer skirt contained the secondary frequency dampeners. Because of your pathetic vanity and your inability to control your own groom, my extraction team had to engage in a messy firefight on the banks of the Rhône."
"Firefight?" Evelyn’s voice squeaked, sheer terror finally piercing through her narcissistic delusions. "David... please. I did what you asked. You told me Julian loved me, that Clara was just an obstacle—"
"Julian is as sentimental and useless as his mother," the voice on the other end dismissed callously. "And you, Evelyn, have outlived your utility by approximately four hours. Look out your window."
Trembling, Evelyn pulled back the heavy velvet drapes. Down in the courtyard, two sleek black Audi sedans with tinted windows had parked across the hotel’s private exit. Four men in dark suits, their coats bulging slightly over holstered weaponry, were entering the service elevators.
"David?" she whimpered.
"Goodbye, Evelyn. Do try not to make a scene in the corridor. It reflects so poorly on the family name."
May you like
The call went dead.
A sharp, authoritative knock sounded against the reinforced oak door of Room 402.
