Chapter 8: The Press Pass
The Saturday night air hung thick with humidity as Julian parked the sedan three blocks away from the Grandview Hotel. The towering limestone facade blazed with amber floodlights, casting long shadows across the red carpet where local dignitaries stepped out of town cars and limousines. Overhead, crystal chandeliers pulsed their brilliance through arched glass windows, framing the silhouette of women in silk gowns and men in crisp black tuxedos. My fingers trembled slightly as I adjusted the collar of my dark coat, hiding the green jade pendant against my chest. Julian reached across the center console, his hand steady and warm as he briefly covered my knuckles.
"Remember," he said, his voice quiet against the idle hum of the engine, "we walk in through the side service entrance with the caterers' manifest. Marcus Vance won't be looking for us among the staff until it's entirely too late."
I nodded, swallowing the dry knot in my throat. We stepped out onto the concrete pavement, the distant murmur of string quartet music drifting down the alleyway. Julian flashed a pair of laminated press-credentials to the security guard stationed by the delivery bay, slipping a folded twenty-dollar bill beneath the plastic sleeve with practiced ease. The guard, half-asleep and bored by the monotony of checking crates of champagne and floral arrangements, barely glanced at our faces before swinging the heavy metal door inward.
May you like
We slipped past towering stacks of folding chairs and racks of glassware, navigating the labyrinthine corridors that smelled faintly of bleach and roasting prime rib. Every step brought us closer to the grand ballroom where Eleanor would already be holding court at the head table. My heart beat a heavy, rhythmic cadence against my ribs, echoing the ticking clock of my childhood memories. We ducked behind a velvet curtain partition that opened directly onto the perimeter of the ballroom floor. The sheer scale of the room took my breath away—hundreds of guests clinked crystal flutes, laughing under the warm glow of thousands of candles.
Across the polished marble expanse, I spotted Eleanor standing on the raised dais. She wore a midnight-blue velvet gown, her blonde updo immaculate, emerald earrings catching the light with every calculated nod she gave to the city mayor standing at her elbow. Julian squeezed my shoulder once, signaling that it was time to move. We skirted the edge of the crowd, keeping our heads down, weaving past waiters bearing silver trays of hors d'oeuvres. We needed to reach the side alcove where Marcus Vance was currently nursing a whiskey and ignoring a local reporter. The trap was set, and the first domino was about to fall.
