I think, Preston, that’s the mouse you left at home. Vivian raised a hand and the room fell into a deathly silence. They handed her a microphone. Her voice rang out clear and authoritative.
The voice of a woman who controlled billions. Welcome, she said. I apologize for my lateness. I had some shelter to clear before I could attend.
Her eyes never left Preston’s face. The silence in the ballroom stretched Tort like a piano string.
Vivian’s comment about removing the refú hung in the air like a toxic vapor that everyone inhaled, but no one dared to acknowledge. The world d
He blinked rapidly, his brain desperately trying to dismiss the visual information he was receiving. It had to be a hallucination, a psychotic break brought on by stress and too much cheap champagne.
The woman washing her pots and pans this morning could not be the titan of industry standing 10 feet away, dripping in enough diamonds to buy a small island nation.
He looked at his hands. He expected to see red, cracked skin from washing dishes without gloves, a punishment he insisted on because he claimed rubber gloves were an unnecessary expense.
In contrast, her hands were perfectly manicured, clutching a diamond-encrusted handbag.
Vivian didn’t move toward him immediately. Instead, she turned to the silver-haired man with the monle whom Preston had insulted earlier. “Lord Roth’s Child,” Vivian said, her voice like velvet on steel.
“I apologize for the confusion regarding the Shanghai acquisition. Benedict assures me that the paperwork is now in order.” The elderly Lord Rothchild bowed deeply. “Don’t think anything of it, Madame Sinclair.”
His vision for the Asian market is unmatched. We’re simply following his lead. Preston felt the blood drain from his face.
The son of Lord Rodh, one of the five richest men in Europe. And he was bowing to Preston Grand Holloway’s wife, who was standing next to Preston.
He took a subtle step back, distancing himself from the blast radius. Tiffany, oblivious to the shifting power dynamics in the room, tugged at Preston’s sleeve. “Preston, why is everyone staring at us, and why does that lady look like your wife?”
Only you know hot. Shut up here, Tiffany. Preston’s throat tightened. Vivian finished her brief exchange with Roth Shield and turned slowly. Her eyes met Preston’s again. She started walking. It wasn’t a casual stroll; it was an approach.
Each click of her sapphire-plated heels on the marble floor sounded like a judge’s gabel. The crowd parted further, creating a corridor of humiliation with Preston at the end.
She stopped two feet in front of him. Up close, the transformation was even more terrifying.
The cowardly posture had vanished, replaced by a column of steel. The dull eyes now shone with cold intelligence.
“Preston,” she said. Her tone was purely transactional. It was the voice she used when deciding whether to liquidate a bankrupt subsidiary.
Vivian. Preston stammered, his voice cracking an octave higher than usual. What? What are you doing here? Are you wearing…? He gestured wildly toward his necklace. Is that real? Vivian ignored the question. Instead, she reached out.
Preston flinched, expecting a slap. Instead, his perfectly manicured fingers pinched the lapel of his beond tuxedo. She straightened it with a sharp tug, an aggressive maternal gesture that emphasized his childishness. “Did you find the Onyx cufflinks okay?” she asked gently.
The microphone in his other hand was held low enough so that only those in his immediate circle could hear. I left them on the dresser, right where you instructed.
The banality of the domestic question, delivered in the middle of the year’s highest-stakes social event, was devastating. It instantly reduced him from a high-flying investor to a husband being scolded for incompetence. “Yes, I found them,” Preston whispered.
Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air conditioning.
“Vivian, what’s going on? How did you get in here? You need to leave before you embarrass me.” He reverted to his old ways, trying to boss her around, but his words rang hollow. Feeling ignored, Tiffany intervened, attempting to assert her territorial claim.
Excuse me, who do you think you are? This is a private event for VIPs. You can’t just walk up to my boyfriend. And Vivien didn’t even look away.
She simply raised a finger, silencing the girl. “Benedict,” she said calmly. Benedict, the impeccably dressed man beside her, stepped forward.
He held up a tablet showing a security photo of Tiffany entering the building.
Miss Tiffany Jenkins, Benedict recited coldly, 24 years old, currently employed as an executive assistant at Sterling Ventures with a salary of $80,000 a year, although payroll records indicate an attendance rate of less than 30%.
The red dress she’s wearing is a Versace knock-off charged to her Sterling Ventures corporate credit card. Yesterday at 3:42 pm in Sojo, Tiffany gasped, clutching her fake Versace.
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