Chapter 7 - The Grand Society Gala
Forty-eight hours after the wedding that never was, the annual Metropolitan Museum of Art Gala was scheduled to take place. It was the crowning social event of the Manhattan autumn calendar.
Normally, an arrest, a scandal, and a shattered fortune would cause a disgraced family to retreat behind the iron gates of their country estates for six months until the socialites found someone else to devour.
Natalie King’s high-priced attorney, Richard Sterling, had managed to secure her bail at two million dollars, posted by an anonymous hard-money lender who had taken a lien against Natalie’s future claim on the Vance estate. Sterling had convinced his client that the best legal strategy was an aggressive public relations offensive: show the world she was innocent, unbothered, and victimized by a vindictive, mentally unstable billionaire mother-in-law.
At 8:00 PM, a white stretch limousine pulled up to the red carpet at the foot of the Met’s grand limestone stairs.
Cameras flashed like a thunderstorm. Natalie stepped out, wearing a blood-red Valentino gown that cost more than an average family’s annual mortgage. Her chin was held high. Her hair was swept into an intricate, golden chignon. She had plastered a serene, tragic smile across her face, leaning on the arm of Richard Sterling.
Reporters surged against the velvet ropes, their voices overlapping in a deafening roar.
“Natalie! Did you shave Eleanor Vance’s head?!”
“Is Jackson Vance still in custody?!”
“What happened to the hundred and twenty million?!”
Sterling raised a hand, guiding Natalie toward the microphones set up for the press. “My client has no comment on the baseless allegations fabricated by Eleanor Vance. We have filed medical affidavits demonstrating that Mrs. Vance has been suffering from documented episodes of paranoia and self-harm. Natalie is here tonight to support the arts and to pray for her mother-in-law’s recovery.”
Natalie dabbed a nonexistent tear from her eye. “I only want what’s best for Jackson’s family,” she whispered into the nearest microphone. “It breaks my heart to see someone we loved deteriorate into such cruelty—”
The roar of the crowd suddenly died.
The reporters turned their heads, cameras lowering, then snapping upward with frantic, feverish energy.
A sleek, vintage 1958 Rolls-Packard Phantom had pulled to the curb directly behind Natalie’s limousine.
The chauffeur opened the door.
I stepped out.
I was not wearing a wig. I was not wearing a turban. I was not wearing a hat.
My scalp was completely bare.
The nicks and cuts had healed into clean, smooth lines, polished to perfection under the glare of the flashbulbs. I wore a breathtaking, midnight-blue velvet cape over an ivory silk column dress designed by Givenchy. Around my neck, resting against my bare collarbones, was the four-million-dollar Cartier sapphire-and-diamond choker Frank had given me thirty years ago.
The flashbulbs erupted into a blinding white wall of light.
Reporters screamed my name. Photographers knocked over their own tripods trying to get an angle.
I did not look down. I did not look away. I walked up the red-carpet stairs with the regal grace of a monarch ascending her throne. I was sixty-eight years old, completely bald, and the most captivating thing on that carpet.
Natalie turned around, and when she saw me, her tragic, serene facade shattered into pieces. Her jaw went slack. Her eyes dilated with pure terror. She looked at my bare head, then her gaze dropped to the sapphire choker around my neck.
Her breath hitched. She looked like she had seen a ghost who had brought the firing squad with her.
I stopped three steps below her, looking up into her pale, painted face.
“Good evening, Natalie,” I said, my voice carrying cleanly over the clicking of a hundred camera shutters. “You look lovely in red. It matches the ink on your arrest warrant.”
Sterling stepped between us, his chest puffed out like a rooster. “Mrs. Vance, stay back. My client has an active restraining order petition against you—”
“Save your breath, Richard,” a booming voice called out from the bottom of the stairs.
Detective Miller, flanked by two plainclothes officers and a senior investigator from the Manhattan District Attorney’s Special Frauds Unit, strode up the red carpet, flashing their gold badges to the press.
“Natalie Kowalski, also known as Natalie King,” Detective Miller announced loudly, his voice echoing off the stone facade of the museum. “You are under arrest for grand larceny in the first degree, wire fraud, and tampering with evidence.”
Natalie took a step back, her heel catching in the hem of her Valentino gown. “What? Richard, do something! I posted bail!”
“You posted bail using money borrowed against stolen collateral,” Marcus Ward said, appearing at Detective Miller’s side. “Solomon Antiquities surrendered your signed pawn slip and the Cayman wire routing number two hours ago. Furthermore, the Swiss authorities have frozen Aurora Holdings’ accounts upon discovering your previous warrants in Palm Beach.”
Natalie looked at the cameras, then at the detectives who were advancing up the stairs, handcuffs gleaming in their hands.
“Jackson!” she shrieked, losing her mind completely on national television. “This is his fault! He told me to take the jewelry! He told me she wouldn't notice!”
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“Jackson took a plea deal twenty minutes ago, Natalie,” Detective Miller said, grabbing her wrists and pulling them behind her back with a sharp, metallic *click*. “He’s currently giving a full confession to the grand jury. You’re on your own.”
***
