There's the mayor, laughing too loudly at his own joke. A cluster of Wall Street types, greed oozing from their pores. To the side, a trio of impeccably dressed older women—socialites, their faces frozen in forced smiles, exchanging whispered judgments behind jeweled fingers, dissecting each other's outfits and scandals like it's a sport.
The ballroom is a sea of glittering dresses and dark suits. The cream of New York society gathered to witness the joining of two powerful families.
The moment I spot Vivianne, my chest tightens. That unmistakable cascade of golden hair, pinned up in intricate waves, glows under the chandeliers like a beacon meant to ruin me. I tear my gaze away, forcing myself to stay calm.
I pivot, steering myself in the opposite direction. My path leads straight to Dr. Phillips, who's engaged in an animated conversation with another guest. I need to get a message to Vivianne, and he's my way in.
I approach with my tray. "Canapé, sir?"
Dr. Phillips turns, his hand outstretched. His fingers freeze mid-air, a flicker of recognition sparking in his eyes. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and spice—mingles with the aroma of the delicate pastries on my tray.
He recovers swiftly, plucking a canapé from the tray. "Ah, yes. Thank you."
As he brings the morsel to his lips, I lean in, close enough to see the faint sheen of sweat on his brow.
"Tell Vivianne to meet me in the Blue Room. Ten minutes." The words are barely a whisper.
A champagne flute clinks nearby.
"Mmm, exquisite." He announces it to his companions. "Now, where was I? Ah yes, the brushwork..." He coughs, covering any reaction, then pops the canapé into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.
I step back, melting into the crowd. The weight of the tray, the press of bodies around me, the constant hum of conversation—it all fades as I track Dr. Phillips from the corner of my eye. He gesticulates wildly, drawing his audience closer to examine some detail of the painting. Then, with practiced ease, he extricates himself.
"If you'll excuse me, I see someone I simply must greet."
He weaves through the crowd toward Vivianne. I busy myself with offering hors d'oeuvres, every nerve on high alert. Dr. Phillips reaches her, clapping Prescott on the shoulder with feigned joviality.
"Prescott! I was telling someone about that marvelous Picasso you acquired. You must come meet them."
As Prescott preens, Dr. Phillips leans close to Vivianne. His lips move, forming words I can't hear over the orchestra's swelling crescendo. Vivianne's spine stiffens, a near-imperceptible reaction, but her face remains a mask of calm, a practiced smile never wavering.
"Oh, Dr. Phillips, you do go on." Her laugh is crystal bells over the din of the party.
Satisfied, I make my way to the edge of the room. The crowd thins here, the air cooler away from the press of bodies. A service door, innocuous in its plainness, beckons. One final glance over my shoulder—no one's watching. The door handle is cool under my palm as I slip into the dimly lit corridor beyond.
The sounds of the gala fade, replaced by the low hum of air conditioning and the distant clatter of dishes. I lean against the wall.
Now, to wait. And hope.
I push off from the wall, my footsteps echoing in the empty corridor as I make my way to the Blue Room. The plush carpet muffles my steps, a stark contrast to the cold concrete of that warehouse floor. My side twinges—a phantom pain from the bullet wound, long since healed but never forgotten.
The Blue Room door looms before me, its ornate handle cool beneath my fingers. I slip inside. The room lives up to its name—sapphire wallpaper, midnight blue drapes, cerulean accents on the furniture.
Elegant and refined.
My mind floods with images of Vivianne. Strapped to that chair, water drowning her. The panic in her eyes, the desperation in her movements. The way she clung to me when I pulled her free, her body shaking with cold and fear. The relief that washed over me, knowing she was safe, only to have it shattered by the crack of a gunshot.
I pace the room, unable to stay still. My fingers trace the scar on my abdomen, a permanent reminder of Nicholas's betrayal.
My brother.
My enemy.
The ache of his presumed death mingles with the relief that he can no longer hurt us. The staccato of gunfire, his body falling into darkness—it plays on repeat in my mind.
Urakov's men were thorough.
Efficient.
