Chapter 4 - The Battle of the Met
The Metropolitan Museum of Art was transformed into a playground for the ultra-wealthy. Millions of dollars of floral arrangements lined the grand staircase, and a chamber orchestra played softly in the background.
The moment Adrian and I entered, the music seemed to dip beneath the sudden wave of hushed conversations. Every eye in the great hall turned to us.
"Stay calm," Adrian whispered, his lips brushing against my ear. "You are the most powerful woman in this room."
We hadn't even made it past the Egyptian wing when the crowd parted, revealing Victoria Harlow and her mother, Eleanor Harlow. Victoria was dressed in a tight, silver dress that looked almost desperate compared to the timeless elegance of my power suit. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her expression a mix of venom and profound anxiety.
"Sophia," Eleanor Harlow said, stepping forward with a fake, painted smile. "What an extraordinary surprise. We were just discussing the... unusual events of my daughter's wedding. It seems there was quite a theatrical performance."
"Performance, Mrs. Harlow?" I asked, keeping my voice cool and perfectly modulated, just as Adrian had taught me during the car ride. "I assure you, there was nothing theatrical about it. Your daughter found my presence amusing when she thought I was a waitress. I simply chose to remind her that wealth does not buy manners."
Victoria took a step forward, her face contorting with rage. "You're a fake! I know you are! I called the catering company, Vance—or whatever your name is. They said you've been on their payroll for three years! Billionaires don't scrub dishes for fifteen dollars an hour!"
The surrounding guests moved closer, eager for the drama. My heart began to race, the old panic clawing at my throat. But before I could speak, Adrian stepped forward, his aura radiating pure malice.
"The catering company is a subsidiary of a hospitality group owned entirely by the Rosewood Trust, Victoria," Adrian said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Sophia was conducting a multi-year audit of our frontline working conditions. A concept I’m sure is entirely foreign to someone whose only labor consists of signing credit card receipts."
A few nearby socialites smothered chuckles. Victoria looked as if she had been slapped.
"Furthermore," I added, finding my footing and stepping into the light, "I found the working conditions quite educational. For instance, I learned that those who have the least are often the most generous—and those who have the most, like your daughter, are remarkably cheap. I believe the Harlow Group is currently seeking a renewal on their credit line with the Russo bank?"
Eleanor Harlow froze, her face turning pale. "Ms. Vance... surely business shouldn't be mixed with personal grievances."
"My grievances are never personal, Mrs. Harlow," I said, offering a sweet, devastating smile. "They are purely financial. And right now, the Harlow Group looks like a very bad investment."
With that, I turned on my heel, leaving the Harlow women standing in the middle of the gallery, completely defeated.
Adrian led me out toward the balcony overlooking Central Park. The crisp night air hit my face, and suddenly, I burst out laughing. It wasn't a bitter laugh; it was a release of years of stifled, suppressed emotion.
"You did beautifully," Adrian said, watching me with a look that made my breath catch. The distance he usually maintained seemed to vanish in the moonlight.
"I can't believe I just threatened a multi-million-dollar corporation," I breathed, leaning against the stone railing. "I used to worry about whether I could afford extra cheese on my pizza."
"You have a natural instinct for power, Sophia," Adrian said, stepping closer. He reached out, his long fingers gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His touch was lingering, heavy with an emotion that had nothing to do with business or trusts. "And you are far more beautiful than any of these fragile women inside could ever hope to be."
My heart did a dangerous flutter. "Adrian... we shouldn't. This is a business arrangement. A lie."
"The lie is what we tell the board," Adrian whispered, his eyes dropping to my lips. "What I am feeling right now... there is nothing false about it."
Before he could bridge the remaining distance between us, a sharp voice interrupted from the doorway.
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"Adrian. We have a problem."
It was Julian, Adrian's chief legal counsel. His face was grim, holding a tablet that glowed brightly in the darkness. "Someone has leaked a copy of the original Rosewood Trust signatures to the press. They're demanding a DNA test to prove Sophia is the biological heir."
