Chapter 3: The Quiet Authority
Celeste’s gaze snapped away from mine, darting toward Adrian with an expression that hovered somewhere between outrage and sudden, cautious calculation. She knew Adrian Mercer. Everyone in this room knew Adrian Mercer, even if he rarely deigned to attend these crowded, performative galas. As one of the principal financial backers and long-standing historical preservationists associated with the institution, Adrian held a quiet veto power that even the corrupt current board members dared not cross.
"Adrian," Celeste said, her voice instantly shedding its venomous hiss and adopting a strained, brittle veneer of polite composure. She tried to pull her arm back again, but I maintained my grip just a fraction longer before letting go, stepping half a step back to give her space. Celeste smoothed the sleeve of her black evening gown with shaking fingers, her diamonds clinking softly. "Tell this... this employee to mind her station. She’s completely overstepped."
Adrian didn't immediately look at Celeste. Instead, his dark eyes shifted downward, resting gently on the silver wheelchair. His expression softened in a way that felt entirely genuine, stripped of the polite masks worn by every other person in the tuxedo-and-gown crowd.
"Elena did what the rest of us should have done ten minutes ago, Celeste," Adrian said evenly, his tone devoid of anger, which somehow made it infinitely more terrifying to a woman like Celeste. "We are here to celebrate the history of this institution. I would remind you whose name is on the limestone above the entrance."
A murmur rippled through the small knot of guests who had drifted close enough to overhear the exchange. Martin, a fifty-year-old man in a classic black tuxedo with a slightly askew bow tie, pushed his way through the fringe of the crowd. Martin was one of the newly appointed vice-chairmen of the board—a man whose rapid rise to power had coincided suspiciously with the freezing out of the museum's founder. His silver hair was slicked back, but a sheen of nervous sweat glistened on his forehead despite the air conditioning.
"Let's not make a scene, Adrian," Martin intervened, forcing a tight, oily smile as he stepped between Celeste and the wheelchair. He shot a sharp, warning glare in my direction, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. "The press is by the north gallery. We don't need misunderstandings blowing up in the morning papers. Celeste was merely... offering a personal word of congratulation to Mrs. Vale."
May you like
"Congratulation," Adrian repeated the word as if it tasted foul. He didn't look at Martin; he kept his focus entirely on the space between us. "Is that what we're calling intimidation now?"
Eleanor finally raised her head. Her hazel eyes, clouded slightly by age but still remarkably sharp, swept over Martin and Celeste. She didn't speak, but the quiet dignity in her posture made Martin visibly shift his weight from foot to foot.
