The space is cavernous, dominated by the massive, skeletal remains of a Tyrannosaurus rex standing in the center of the room. Tables draped in white linen surround the exhibit, and a string quartet plays softly from a raised balcony. The room ispacked with hundreds of people, the air thick with the smell of expensive champagne and calculated ambition.
"They're staring," Audrey whispers, keeping her smile fixed as we accept two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter.
"Let them stare," I reply, scanning the perimeter of the room. I catalog the exits, the security personnel, and the faces of the board members I recognize.
"I feel like a piece of meat in a shark tank."
"You are not the meat," I remind her, taking a sip of the dry champagne. "You are the bait."
I spot him near the east wing of the hall.
Preston Vance. My father is standing in a circle of city councilmen, holding a glass of scotch, projecting the image of the benevolent patriarch. He is sixty-five, silver-haired, and wears his arrogance like a second skin.
I guide Audrey subtly toward the center of the room, ensuring we are in his direct line of sight.
It takes exactly four minutes.
A woman in a silver gown whispers something to a man next to my father. The man turns, looks across the room, and then leans in to speak to Preston.
My father stops talking. He turns his head slowly.
His eyes lock onto me. Then, they drop to the woman standing by my side.
Even from fifty feet away, I can see the exact moment his brain processes the information. He recognizes Audrey. He recognizes the woman his youngest son discarded a month ago. And then,his gaze drops to her left hand, where she is holding the champagne flute.
The vintage diamond. The family heirloom he spent a decade trying to acquire.
Preston’s face turns the color of ash.
A dark, vicious surge of triumph floods my veins. I don't smile. I just raise my glass to him in a silent, mocking toast.
"He saw us," Audrey murmurs, her body tensing against my side. She didn't look directly at him, but she felt the shift in the room's gravity.
"He did."
"Where is Simon?" she asks, her voice dropping to a nervous whisper.
I scan the crowd again. I don't have to look hard.
Simon is standing near the bar on the opposite side of the room. He is wearing a white dinner jacket, looking every bit the spoiled, entitled prince he believes himself to be. Next to him is a blonde woman in a pale pink dress, clinging to his arm. The receptionist.
Simon is laughing at something the bartender said. He turns his head to scan the room, the casual, arrogant smile plastered on his face.
His eyes sweep past us, stop, and snap back.
The glass of bourbon in his hand tilts dangerously, spilling a few drops onto the marble floor.
Simon stares at Audrey. He stares at the emerald dress. He stares at her hair, her posture, the effortless, devastating beautythat he threw away because he thought she was too ordinary for his new life.
And then, he looks at me.
His older brother. The man who cleans up his messes. The man who is currently standing with his hand resting possessively on the bare skin of his ex-fiancée’s back.
Simon looks like he has just been shot.
"Malcolm," Audrey breathes, her voice shaking. She sees him. I can feel the sudden, erratic spike in her pulse where my thumb rests against her spine. "He's looking right at us."
"I know."
