Chapter 6: The Art Institute Preview
The glittering charity preview at the Art Institute of Chicago was designed to project an image of untouchable perfection. Crystal chandeliers cascaded light across the grand neoclassical staircase, reflecting off diamond necklaces, silk gowns, and the polished black velvet tuxedos of the city's financial elite. String quartets played softly from the upper mezzanine, their classical melodies swallowed by the gentle hum of polite laughter and champagne flutes clinking against one another.
I stood near the service entrance behind the grand gallery hall, wearing a standard black catering uniform with a white apron tied neatly around my waist. My reddish-brown hair was pulled back into a tight, utilitarian bun beneath a black cap. To the wealthy patrons drifting past with their hors d'oeuvres, I was invisible—just another set of hands clearing away empty glasses and resetting tables.
But my eyes were fixed entirely on the center of the room.
Julian and Evelyn.
They made a breathtaking couple on the surface. Julian stood tall in his tailored dark velvet tuxedo, nodding politely as the city's cultural board president praised his latest philanthropic initiative. His face was a mask of calm, polished professionalism. But as I watched him closely from the shadows of a marble pillar, I noticed the slight tension in his jaw, the rigid posture, and the way his eyes periodically scanned the perimeter of the room, searching for something—or someone.
Beside him, Evelyn was radiant. She wore a backless emerald silk gown that shimmered under the gallery lights, her dark hair swept up in an intricate chignon. She laughed musical, effortless laughs, touching Julian’s arm with an intimacy that looked entirely genuine to the onlookers. But beneath the charm, I saw the predator. I saw how her eyes flicked sharply toward anyone who stayed too close for too long, how she maneuvered Julian away from reporters asking too many detailed questions about their sudden marriage.
My phone vibrated quietly against my thigh inside the deep pocket of my apron. I slipped my hand down, tapping the screen of the burner phone I had purchased the night before.
In position. I have the diary and Mrs. Gable's statements, I typed quickly beneath the dim light of a service corridor.
Within seconds, my phone buzzed back.
She’s watching every move I make. She poured my water herself at dinner. I didn't drink it. Meet me by the east sculpture garden exit in ten minutes. Pretend to deliver a linen complaint.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket, taking a deep breath to steady my nerves. The plan was moving faster than we anticipated, driven by Evelyn's growing desperation. She sensed Julian pulling away, felt the slight emotional distance he had maintained since the wedding night incident, and it was making her reckless.
As if sensing my gaze across the crowded room, Evelyn suddenly turned her head. Her dark eyes swept over the catering staff lined up near the service doors. For a fraction of a second, her gaze locked onto mine.
May you like
My breath caught in my throat. Despite the uniform, despite the cap shadowing my face, recognition flared in her eyes like a struck match. Her smile faltered for a microsecond—just long enough for her fingers to tighten around the stem of her champagne glass until her knuckles turned white.
Before she could speak to Julian or signal security, I turned smoothly on my heel, pushing through the heavy double doors leading into the east sculpture garden, blending seamlessly into the quiet, dimly lit hallway where marble statues stood like silent witnesses to the unfolding war.
