Chapter 5 - The Gala Trap
The annual St. Ambrose Charity Gala was held every December at the Grand River Hotel—a black-tie event attended by the city’s wealthy donors, hospital board members, and top executives.
In previous years, Lydia had always made excuses for why I couldn't attend. “It’s mostly for board members, Jerome.” or “You’d be bored out of your mind with all the medical jargon.” I had always accepted her excuses, staying home while she put on backless evening gowns and drove off alone.
This year was different.
Because I was still legally her husband and no formal separation had been filed with the court, hospital protocol dictated that spouses of executive directors were invited to the formal reception.
Two days before the event, I walked into Lydia’s dressing room while she was tailoring her dress.
“I’m coming with you on Saturday,” I announced calmly.
Lydia stopped her alterations, her reflection in the mirror showing instant panic before she masked it with irritation. “Jerome, don't be ridiculous. We’re in the middle of a separation.”
“We haven't signed anything,” I pointed out, leaning against the doorframe in my worn flannel shirt. “And as far as the hospital board knows, we are still married. If I don't show up, people will ask questions. Wouldn't that look bad during your audit review?”
Her jaw tightened. I had struck a nerve. The audit was putting immense pressure on her, and the last thing she needed was personal drama leaking into her professional domain.
“Fine,” she snapped, turning away. “But wear a decent suit. Don't embarrass me.”
Saturday night arrived. I didn't wear a cheap rental suit. I used a fraction of my modest personal savings to buy a tailored black tuxedo that fitted my tall, broad-shouldered frame perfectly. When I stepped downstairs, Lydia stared at me for three long seconds, genuine surprise flickering in her eyes before her usual cold disdain returned.
The Grand River Ballroom was magnificent—crystal chandeliers, live string quartet, champagne fountains. Lydia immediately abandoned me near the entrance, muttering something about needing to greet the Chief of Surgery.
I watched her navigate the room like a politician, smiling, shaking hands, slipping seamlessly into the world of upper-class hypocrisy. Within twenty minutes, Marcus Vance joined her side. They stood near the balcony doors, glasses of Dom Pérignon in hand, standing far closer than a vendor and an executive had any right to stand.
I stood near the bar, quietly sipping sparkling water.
“Mr. Wade?” a quiet voice murmured beside me.
I turned to see a sharp-eyed man in a dark grey suit. Vance Miller, the private investigator Arthur Sterling had hired.
“Mr. Miller,” I acknowledged silently.
“The trap is set,” Miller said under his breath, leaning against the bar. “The hospital’s Chief Compliance Officer, Dr. Harrison, is sitting at Table 4. In about ten minutes, an anonymous dossier containing Midwest Medical’s fraudulent invoices and the corporate registry links between Marcus Vance and your wife will be delivered to his secure email tablet.”
“Is it trace-proof?” I asked.
“Handled through encrypted servers in Zurich,” Miller replied with a faint smile. “By midnight, the board will know everything. But that’s not all.”
“What else?”
“Look at the entrance,” Miller whispered.
I glanced toward the double doors of the ballroom. Walking in alongside three uniformed police officers were two investigators from the State Insurance Fraud Bureau.
My pulse quickened. “You called the state authorities?”
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“Sterling did,” Miller said smoothly. “When public funds and Medicare allocations are diverted through fake vendor invoices, it stops being a corporate matter and becomes a felony. Enjoy the show, Mr. Wade.”
Miller vanished into the crowd. I stood my ground, my hands folded calmly behind my back, watching the tragicomedy unfold.
