Chapter 2 - The Taste Of Wine And Cruelty
The perimeter was where the ballroom hid its mechanics. Here, behind floral pillars and velvet curtains, the shadows pooled, thick and protective. Ethan did not adjust his cuffs. He did not bow his head. He watched the room with the clinical detachment of a chess grandmaster who had already seen thirty moves into the future.
Beside the grand stage, Chad whispered something into Brooke’s ear. She threw her head back, her laugh shrill, tossing her blonde curls as Chad kissed her bare shoulder. It was a calculated display, designed to pierce whatever remained of Ethan’s masculine pride.
"He’s still staring, Chad," Brooke muttered, her fingers tightening around her champagne flute. "He looks at us like we’re dirt beneath his boots. Even crippled, the bastard acts like a king. It makes my skin crawl."
"Then let’s remind the king that his kingdom has fallen," Chad sneered, his eyes glittering with malicious sport.
Chad picked up two glasses of vintage Pinot Noir from a passing silver tray and swaggered toward Ethan’s table. Brooke followed closely, holding her crimson skirt aside as if walking through an alleyway.
"Vance," Chad called out, leaning over Ethan's wheelchair until their faces were inches apart. "You look thirsty over here in the dark. Must be exhausting, rolling yourself around like luggage."
"Chad," Ethan replied, his tone smooth, dangerously calm. "I would suggest you return to Brooke. The light suits you better than the dark. In the dark, a man tends to misstep."
"Is that a threat?" Chad barked a laugh, loud enough to draw the attention of the surrounding socialites. "A threat from a cripple? Look at you, Vance! You couldn't stop a breeze if it tried to blow you over!"
With theatrical carelessness, Chad tilted his glass.
A stream of dark, viscous red wine poured from the rim, splattering directly over the lapels of Ethan's tuxedo jacket and soaking through his pristine white dress shirt. The liquid dripped onto the leather of his wheelchair, deep and staining, like spilled blood.
Gasps rippled through the nearest onlookers, but no one moved. No one spoke. Old money knew when to stay silent; they knew Chad’s family had just purchased fifty-one percent of the debt notes on the Vance tower. Why defend a ghost when you can court the new god?
"Oops," Chad grinned, wiping his fingers with a linen napkin. "My hand slipped. My apologies, Ethan. But then again, it’s not like you’re going to get up and do anything about it, are you?"
Brooke scoffed, crossing her arms. "Let’s go, Chad. The smell of defeat is clinging to him."
Ethan did not blink. A drop of red wine ran down his collarbone, hot against his skin. His fingers gripped the wheels of his chair, the tendons in his forearms tightening like steel cables under his sleeves.
"Sir! Please, let me help you!"
A soft, frantic voice broke through the suffocating circle of mockery.
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A young banquet attendant pushed her way through the wall of spectators. She wore the plain, ill-fitting black waistcoat and white apron of the St. Regis catering staff. Her chestnut hair was pulled into a neat, hurried bun, and her hazel eyes were wide with genuine, unbridled horror at what she had just witnessed.
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