Chapter 8 - The Trap at the Gala
The ballroom devolved into pure, unadulterated chaos. Guests scrambled for the emergency exits, tables were overturned, and the security detail Ethan had hired from his own campaign funds turned their backs on him, fleeing into the service corridors to avoid being implicated in a capital murder conspiracy.
Vanessa didn't attack Ethan. She turned toward the dark gallery behind the stage, her eyes fixing on the small, square observation window where my silhouette was visible against the green indicator lights of the AV equipment.
"Chloe!" she shrieked, her voice a raw, animal howl that didn't belong to the polished digital strategist. "You think you won? You think you get to keep this life?"
She lunged through the velvet curtains at the back of the stage, her white silk skirt tearing against the wooden scaffolding as she sprinted up the narrow, spiral staircase leading toward the AV gallery.
Ethan didn't follow her. He turned toward the service exit behind the green room, his tuxedo jacket discarded on the floor as he tried to reach the private elevator that led to the subterranean garage where his armored town car was waiting.
But when he pushed the brass elevator button, the doors didn't open.
The screen above the frame displayed a single, scrolling message written in clean, black ink: SYSTEM OVERRIDE - AUTHORIZATION ACCIDENT VANCE LOGISTICS.
Mateo had used the hotel’s master fire panel to lock every elevator and exit route in the building, turning the luxury establishment into a multi-million-dollar trap.
I stepped out of the AV gallery into the fourth-floor corridor, the iron crowbar still heavy in my right hand. My legs were shaking, my breath coming in short, painful wheezes as the frostbite on my skin began to blister under the warm hallway lights.
At the end of the hall, Vanessa was waiting for me.
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She looked insane—the white lace of my bridal dress covered in black dust from the stage ropes, her blonde hair falling out of its elegant pins in wild, tangled knots around her face. The carving knife in her hand was steady, its polished steel blade catching the red glare of the emergency exit signs.
"Your father was a weak old man, Chloe," Vanessa said, walking slowly toward me, her heels clicking against the marble floorboards. "He thought he could stop us. He thought a few shipping receipts were worth more than a seat in the Senate. Ethan gave him the digitalis, but I was the one who turned the monitor off. And I’m going to finish the job tonight."
