Chapter 4
The grand ballroom was a sensory assault. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne, roasted meats, and the metallic tang of anxiety hidden beneath practiced smiles. A string quartet played a frantic Vivaldi piece in the corner, entirely drowned out by the roar of hundreds of overlapping conversations.
Clara walked down the sweeping marble staircase, her black gown moving like liquid shadow. The moment her foot touched the ballroom floor, the temperature of the room seemed to drop. Conversations faltered. Eyes darted toward her.
She was a ghost. She had buried her husband six months ago, retreating from the public eye to mourn and protect her daughter. The corporate board had assumed she was broken. Marcus had told them she was fragile. Yet here she was, standing tall, radiating a lethal, untouchable calm.
"Clara," a voice purred from her left.
Clara turned smoothly. Marcus Vance stood by a champagne fountain, holding a crystal flute. He was a handsome man in his late fifties, his silver hair swept back, his tuxedo perfectly tailored. But his eyes were dead and reptilian.
"Uncle Marcus," Clara said, her voice a cool, flat surface. "I see you're drinking early. Celebrating a victory you haven't earned yet?"
Marcus chuckled, stepping closer. The two heavily built men standing a few paces behind him shifted their weight. Private security. "I'm just enjoying the ambiance, my dear. I must admit, I was surprised you showed up. After what happened at the front desk... I thought you might have taken the hint and gone home."
"Patrick was a cute parlor trick, Marcus," Clara took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter but did not drink it. "Did you really think paying a clerk to stall me would stop me from signing the Department of Defense contract tonight?"
"A lot can happen before a contract is signed, Clara," Marcus said, his smile failing to reach his eyes. "You've been under so much stress since David died. The board is worried. I am worried. The autonomous drone network requires a leader with a clear mind. A leader who isn't distracted by single motherhood."
Clara felt a spike of pure, unadulterated rage, but her face remained a mask of polite indifference. "David died because his transport was ambushed using classified coordinates that only three people on the Vance Global executive board had access to."
Marcus sighed, a dramatic display of mock sympathy. "A tragedy of war. But we must look to the future. Are you sure you're up for this tonight? You left little Lily upstairs, didn't you? It's a big, frightening hotel. Accidents happen."
Clara’s grip on her champagne flute tightened until her knuckles turned white. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper that only Marcus could hear.
"If a single hair on my daughter's head is harmed, Marcus, I will not wait for a board meeting. I will not call the police," Clara locked her eyes onto his. "I will utilize every asset under my command to dismantle your life, and then I will end you myself. Do we understand each other?"
Marcus held her gaze for a long moment. Slowly, the smug smile returned. "Enjoy the party, Clara. Let's see who is left standing when the music stops."
He turned and walked away, his security detail falling in step behind him. Clara watched him disappear into the crowd. She reached into her clutch and pressed a hidden button on her secure comms device.
"Elias," Clara whispered. "He took the bait. Check the perimeter."
May you like
Static hissed in her earpiece. "Elias?" Clara repeated.
Nothing. The comms were dead.
