Chapter 7: The Grand Gala
The heavy oak service door clicked shut behind me, sealing off the damp chill of the stone stairway and plunging me into the humid, champagne-scented air of the mansion's lower kitchens. The contrast was staggering. Up here, away from the quiet confinement of the eastern wing, the estate roared with life. Through the swinging double doors that led to the grand ballroom, I could hear the rich, swelling chords of a live chamber orchestra competing with the low, rolling hum of hundreds of wealthy guests mingling in their black-tie finery.
I pressed my back against the cool white-tiled wall of the pantry, pulling the heavy dark wool coat tighter across my body to conceal my pregnant frame. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, but I forced my breathing to slow down, inhaling through my nose and releasing the air in a silent, controlled stream. Panicking now meant capture, and capture meant losing everything.
"Hey! You there, service entrance is down the hall for catering staff," a sharp voice called out from behind a tall stainless-steel prep table.
I froze, my fingers tightening around the cold metal key in my pocket. I turned my head slowly, keeping my eyes cast down just enough to obscure my face beneath the deep shadow of the coat's turned-up collar. A young man in a stiff black vest and white button-down shirt was hurrying past, balancing a massive silver tray stacked high with crystal flutes. He didn't stop to look at me twice; in a house this size, filled with dozens of temporary caterers, security personnel, and hired help, a quiet woman standing near the kitchen margins was simply invisible.
"Sorry," I murmured, my voice low and raspy. "Just looking for the side courtyard."
"Out through the scullery doors on your left," he tossed over his shoulder, already disappearing into the bustling chaos of the main kitchen line where chefs barked orders and flames licked up from copper sauté pans.
I didn't hesitate. I slipped through the swinging scullery doors, navigating past towering stacks of empty china crates and industrial dishwashers until I found the heavy exit push-bar leading out into the night air. With a soft click, the heavy metal door swung outward, and a gust of cool, crisp evening wind rushed in, carrying the scent of trimmed boxwood hedges and distant ocean salt.
The estate grounds were a fairy-tale spectacle of sparkling white fairy lights woven through ancient oak branches and glowing Japanese lanterns illuminating the manicured gravel pathways. Guests in silk gowns and tailored tuxedos strolled along the stone terraces, laughing and holding crystal glasses, entirely oblivious to the desperate drama unfolding just beyond their periphery. I stepped out into the shadows of the western colonnade, keeping close to the thick stone pillars where the shadows were deepest. My bare feet, tucked into soft leather loafers I had scavenged from Martha's storage locker earlier that week, padded silently against the damp stone.
My immediate destination was the old wrought-iron gate at the western perimeter, a rarely used service exit that led down an unpaved logging road toward the coastal highway. If Martha's information on the guard rotations was correct, the perimeter patrol would be concentrated entirely around the main front gates and the central driveway to handle the endless line of arriving limousines and luxury sedans.
As I rounded the corner of the west wing, however, the cheerful notes of the string quartet faded, replaced by the crunch of heavy footsteps on gravel. I ducked instantly behind a massive marble urn overflowing with cascading ivy, holding my breath and pressing myself flat against the cold stone balustrade.
Two men in black suits—private security contractors hired by Jax—walked past my hiding spot, their radios humming with low static.
"—command post says sweep the perimeter again," one of them muttered, adjusting his earpiece. "Boss wants absolute zero traffic on the western access road tonight. VIPs are parking near the helipad."
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"Relax, nobody's getting out of the eastern suite anyway," the second guard replied with a cynical chuckle. "The old man has that wing locked tighter than a federal vault."
They passed out of earshot, their footsteps fading into the murmur of the distant crowd. A cold shiver ran down my spine, but it was quickly replaced by a sharp surge of determination. They still thought I was locked upstairs. By the time they discovered the empty room, I intended to be miles away. I stepped out from behind the marble urn, checked the open expanse of the lawn ahead, and broke into a fast, silent walk toward the dark perimeter wall.
