Chapter 3: The Gala Preparation
Ten years had passed, but the layout of the Vance estate remained a cage designed to look like a palace. Spring sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the grand salon, illuminating dust motes dancing around towering arrangements of white orchids. I stood before the gilded mirror in my bedroom, smoothing down the simple emerald-green silk dress I had chosen for tonight's annual Vance Foundation Charity Gala.
At twenty-one, I had learned the art of survival in this house: wear their clothes, smile for their cameras, and never, ever show a crack in the veneer.
A sharp knock rapped against my door before it swung open. Eleanor stood in the threshold, breathtaking in a sweeping midnight-blue evening gown encrusted with subtle jet beads. Her hair was swept up into an intricate chignon, and the familiar double strand of pearls rested against her throat. She looked every bit the benevolent philanthropist of the year.
"You look presentable, Lily, though that shade of green is a bit loud for someone assisting with the donor registry," Eleanor remarked, her gaze sweeping over me with practiced clinical detachment.
"Thank you, Eleanor. I'll keep my voice down and focus on the check-ins," I replied evenly, keeping my face completely blank. Years of practice had turned my emotional armor into second skin.
"See that you do. Tonight is the night we announce the expansion of our statewide youth outreach initiative. Your father has worked tirelessly on the press releases, and I will not have any clumsy teenage trauma or ungrateful sullenness overshadowing our donors' generosity." She stepped closer, adjusting the collar of my dress with fingers that felt like cold wire. "Smile when the photographers from the Chronicle approach our table. It’s expected."
"I know the drill," I murmured.
"Good girl," she said, tapping my cheek with a manicured nail—a gesture that hovered just on the borderline between affectionate and threatening.
May you like
As soon as she turned away and her footsteps faded down the grand staircase, I reached into the hidden pocket of my dress. My fingers brushed against a small, modern burner phone—a prepaid device I had purchased two days ago at a gas station thirty miles away. On the screen was a single text message from an unknown number: Found the shell company records in the state database. Meet me behind the catering tent at 9:00 PM.
The sender was Marcus Thorne, an investigative journalist who had spent six months returning my anonymous emails. Tonight, amidst the flashbulbs, champagne flutes, and glittering socialites, the house of cards Eleanor had spent two decades building was finally going to wobble.
