Chapter 5 - The Gala
Grant’s firm was hosting its annual charity gala that Saturday at the Ritz-Carlton downtown. It was the crown jewel of his social calendar—a night where he paraded me around in a backless silk gown to prove to the world what a perfect, wealthy, untouchable man he was.
"He's going to be frantic," I told Adrian as we sat in a black SUV parked across the street from the hotel. "He hasn't heard from me in three days. His calls to my parents' house are bouncing to a disconnected line."
"A desperate man makes mistakes," Adrian replied, adjusting his earpiece. "Are you ready for this?"
I looked down at the sleek, tailored emerald dress Adrian had provided for me. The sleeves were short. The bruised skin on my arms was faintly visible, no longer hidden behind heavy cardigans.
"I'm ready," I said.
I stepped out of the SUV and walked across the street. The valet opened the glass doors, and I stepped into the glittering ballroom. The room was filled with Charlotte's elite—politicians, bankers, and real estate moguls.
And then, I saw him.
Grant was standing near the champagne tower, gripping a crystal flute so tightly his knuckles were white. His pristine image was fraying at the edges; his smile was tight, his eyes darting frantically toward the entrance.
When he saw me, he froze.
He moved across the room like a predator, his face a mask of composed fury. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my bicep.
"What the hell are you playing at, Evie?" he hissed, pulling me toward a secluded alcove behind the ice sculpture. "Where have you been? I've had people tearing this city apart looking for you."
"I've been busy, Grant," I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. I did not flinch. I did not look away.
Grant noticed the change in my posture. His eyes narrowed. "You think because your uncle is back, you're safe? You think you can walk in here and humiliate me? Let's go home. Now."
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
Grant laughed, a dark, ugly sound. "You don't have a choice. I own you, Evie. I own your family. You are going to walk out to the car with me, or I swear to God, I will break your arm right here in front of the mayor."
"Let go of her."
The voice came from behind Grant.
Grant turned, his sneer faltering. Adrian stood there, dressed in a flawless black tuxedo. But he wasn't alone.
Standing on either side of Adrian were two men in dark, tailored suits. I recognized one of them from the financial dossiers I had pulled—Victor Thorne, the primary liaison for the East Coast syndicate Grant was laundering money for.
Grant's face drained of color.
"Victor," Grant stammered, letting go of my arm instantly. "What... what are you doing here? We usually meet in private."
"We usually do, Grant," Victor said, his voice quiet and completely devoid of warmth. "But Adrian here sent me a very interesting spreadsheet this afternoon. Something about a Cayman Islands account under the name 'Beatrice Caldwell'? Your mother's maiden name, I believe?"
Grant stopped breathing. The polished, untouchable man crumbled in front of my eyes.
May you like
"I can explain," Grant choked out, his eyes darting toward the exits.
"You will," Victor said smoothly. "My associates are waiting in the private dining room downstairs. We are going to have a long talk about the two million dollars you've skimmed from our accounts."
