Grant. Good to see you, Preston said, inserting himself into the circle with the subtlety of a car alarm. Grant turned, his eyes narrowing as he took in Preston and the flashing red beacon. That was Tiffany.
Preston. Did not think you made the cut for this list. It is invite only. I have my connections, Preston lied smoothly.
This is Tiffany. Charmed, Grant said dryly, barely glancing at her. We were just discussing the Aurora Group. Word is the owner is finally making an appearance tonight.
Preston laughed. The Aurora Group, please. It is probably some old man in a wheelchair hiding in Switzerland. I heard the whole thing is a shell for money laundering.
A silver-haired man in the group turned slowly toward Preston. His name was Lord Rothschild, one of the five wealthiest men in Europe. And he looked at Preston the way a homeowner looks at a cockroach on the kitchen counter. I would be careful with your speculations, young man.
The Aurora Group owns this hotel and the bank that holds your mortgage. Likely. Preston waved a dismissive hand. I know finance, sir.
I know when a company is a ghost. Aurora has no face. That means they have no power. Grant smirked into his champagne glass.
If you say so, Preston. By the way, where is your wife tonight? Vivien was it? Preston rolled his eyes.
Vivien. She is at home. She is not really cut out for this world. Sweet girl, but very simple.
She thinks a grocery store wine is fine dining. You know how it is. Tiffany giggled. She sounds adorable, like a little mouse.
Exactly. Preston agreed, taking a glass of champagne from a passing tray. A mouse. I need a lioness.
He squeezed Tiffany's waist and laughed at his own joke, completely unaware that the mouse he left at home was about to walk through those doors and eat him alive. At precisely 8:00, the lights in the ballroom dimmed.
The murmur of 500 conversations died like a candle being snuffed. A single spotlight hit the grand staircase at the far end of the room, illuminating the marble steps like a runway to heaven or to hell, depending on where you are sitting. The master of ceremonies stepped to the microphone. He was a well-known actor with a voice like aged bourbon.
Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us for the 50th annual Diamond Gala. Tonight is a historic occasion. For decades, the Aurora Group has funded hospitals, charities, and the arts from the shadows. Tonight, the chairwoman has decided to step into the light.
Preston nudged Tiffany. Watch. It is going to be some old lady. Bet you 10 bucks.
Please welcome, the announcer continued, the owner and chairwoman of the Aurora Group, Madame Vivien Sinclair. The champagne glass slipped from Preston's fingers and shattered on the marble floor. The sound was swallowed by the collective gasp that moved through the room like a wave. Sinclair, that was Vivien's maiden name, but that was impossible.
Her father was a mechanic. Preston had met him before he died. He had seen the grease under his fingernails. He had eaten the man's barbecue.
The double doors at the top of the staircase swung open. And there she was. Vivien stood at the top of the stairs in a gown of midnight blue silk that cascaded over her pregnant figure like a waterfall made of twilight. Crushed diamonds caught the spotlight and threw it back in a thousand directions, making her shimmer like something not entirely human.
The Sinclair Blue sapphire blazed at her throat $12 million of crystallized power. Her dark hair was swept up, exposing the elegant column of her neck. She was seven months pregnant, and she was the most commanding person in the room. She began to descend.
Every click of her heels on the marble was measured, deliberate. She moved like a woman who owned the ground she walked on, which, as it happened, she literally did. The crowd parted. 500 of the wealthiest, most powerful people in New York City stepped aside like the Red Sea, and Vivien walked through them without looking left or right. Her eyes were fixed on one person, Preston.
He stood paralyzed at his table, his mouth open, his face cycling through emotions so fast it looked like a slot machine trying to land on something coherent. Confusion, shock, recognition, fear. Tiffany tugged his sleeve. Why does that lady look like your wife, only like a goddess version?
Grant Holloway, standing close enough to hear, allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. I think Preston, that is the mouse you left at home. Vivien reached the bottom of the stairs. She stopped 10 ft from Preston.
Four security guards flanked her. Benedict Ashford stood at her right side, immaculate in a charcoal suit. Marcus Henderson, the forensic accountant, stood at the left, holding a leather folio like a death warrant. Vivien looked at Preston.
A slow, terrifying smile spread across her face. Not warm, not forgiving. It was the smile of a woman who had been underestimated for the last time. She was handed a microphone.
Her voice rang out across the ballroom, clear and commanding. Welcome. I apologize for my lateness. I had some garbage to take out before I could attend.
Her eyes never left Preston's face. She turned to Lord Rothschild. Lord Rothschild, I apologize for the confusion with the Shanghai acquisition. Benedict assures me the paperwork is in order.
The old man bowed. Think nothing of it, Madam Sinclair. Your vision for the Asian market is unparalleled. We are merely following your lead.