Chapter 3 - Blood and Champagne
By seven o'clock that evening, the lie had graduated from an office scandal into a high-society war zone.
The annual Gold Coast Heritage Gala was hosted at the Drake Hotel, an ornate, gold-leafed ballroom dripping with crystal chandeliers, antique silver, and the old-money royalty of the Midwest. Every year, Hartwell & Pierce was expected to sit at Table One, right beneath the orchestra balcony.
I adjusted the bowtie of the midnight-black tuxedo Evelyn’s personal stylist had delivered to my apartment three hours earlier.
“Stop fidgeting,” Evelyn murmured beside me as we stepped out of the black town car onto the red carpet outside the hotel. Rain misted down from the Chicago sky, caught in the harsh glare of camera flashes.
She looked breathtaking. She wore an emerald silk gown that clung to her silhouette, backless and daring, cut with an architectural precision that mirrored her professional mind. A delicate diamond choker encircled her throat, catching the light like frozen stars.
“I don’t wear clothes that cost more than my first car,” I muttered, offering her my arm as the doorman held open the heavy brass-trimmed doors.
“Consider it occupational hazard pay,” she whispered, slipping her arm through mine. Her skin was warm, smooth, and shockingly soft against the black wool of my sleeve.
The moment we crossed into the grand foyer, the ambient roar of three hundred wealthy socialites dipped noticeably. Heads turned. Glasses of vintage champagne paused halfway to aristocratic lips.
Standing near the grand staircase was Julian Sterling, holding a glass of Scotch, flanked by Evelyn’s parents. Richard Hart leaned heavily on his cane, his eyes burning into me with pure, unadulterated venom.
“Remember the script,” Evelyn breathed, pressing her shoulder lightly against mine. “We met during the Lakeshore project two years ago. We kept it quiet because of company policy. We are utterly devoted to each other.”
“And what if your father asks about our private life?” I whispered.
Evelyn tilted her head upward, her lips curling into a wicked, daring smile meant for the cameras. “Tell him I’m demanding in the boardroom, but impossible to resist in private.”
Before I could swallow that grenade, Julian Sterling was gliding toward us across the parquet floor, smiling with the cold efficiency of a shark slicing through calm water.
“Evelyn, darling,” Julian said, ignoring my existence entirely as he leaned in to kiss her cheek. Evelyn leaned back just enough to force him to miss, offering her hand instead. Julian caught her fingers and pressed his lips to them, his gaze never leaving her eyes. “You look spectacular. A pity about the theatrics this morning, but I assume you’ve come to your senses.”
“I’m having the clearest day of my life, Julian,” she replied smoothly, retracting her hand and deliberately resting it against my chest, over my heart.
Julian finally turned his gaze to me. Up close, his eyes were the color of stagnant water.
“Vance, isn't it?” Julian said, swirling his glass. “Mason Vance. Operations. How quaint. Tell me, Mason, what’s it like knowing you’re nothing more than a human shield? A temporary inconvenience Evelyn pulled out of the bargain bin to delay the inevitable?”
I felt Evelyn’s fingers tighten against my chest, her body tensing for a fight.
I smiled, stepping half an inch forward, subtly placing myself between Julian and Evelyn.
“The view from the bargain bin is pretty damn good, Sterling,” I said, keeping my tone relaxed, conversational, and lethal. “Especially when you realize the only reason she had to look elsewhere is because you couldn't close the deal yourself. In my line of work, we call that a failed acquisition due to defective goods.”
Julian’s smile vanished. The glass in his hand rattled slightly.
“You’re out of your depth, boy,” Julian whispered, his voice dropping into a razor-thin hiss. “This isn’t a spreadsheet. This is bloodline. Tomorrow morning, your name will be all over the Chicago financial rags as a corporate grifter climbing over the CEO’s bedsheets. Let’s see how your integrity handles public humiliation.”
“He won’t be alone, Julian,” Evelyn interrupted, her voice ringing clear enough to draw the attention of three nearby board members. “And if your father’s PR firm runs a single hit piece on Mason, I will personally release the audited safety logs from the Sterling shipyard fire in 2021. You remember those, don't you? The ones you paid twenty million to bury?”
Julian froze.
A heavy silence descended over the small radius around us. For the first time, I saw genuine fear flicker across Julian’s aristocratic face.
“You wouldn’t dare,” he hissed.
May you like
“Try me,” Evelyn said calmly. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, my fiancé and I have a dance to lead.”
***
