Chapter 8 - The Charity Gala
Friday evening, the annual St. Jude Charity Gala took place at the Grand Regency Ballroom—the exact same venue where the chandelier had fallen just one week prior.
The media was out in full force. Tabloid reporters and camera crews lined the red carpet, eager to catch a glimpse of the scandal-plagued former CEO whose life had imploded faster than a house of cards.
I decided to attend. Not because I wanted social validation, but because I needed to close the circle.
Dressed in a backless, tailored ivory gown that artfully concealed the faint bruising still lingering on my shoulder, I walked into the ballroom on the arm of my father—who, defying his doctors' initial warnings, walked using a sleek silver cane—alongside Arthur Pendelton and a security detail.
The moment we walked through the grand arched doors, the room fell into a stunned, breathless silence. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wildfire. Flashbulbs blinded us from every angle.
“Look, it’s Elena Sterling… and her father,” a voice whispered near the bar. “I heard she was the one who pulled the plug on his entire empire.”
“Can you blame her? Did you hear about what he did during the chandelier collapse?” another voice chimed in. “Left his own kid to die while saving his ex-lover’s kid.”
Dylan was already inside. He stood near the back of the room, standing alone by a pillar, looking pale, gaunt, and hollowed out. His expensive suit was wrinkled; his hair was unkempt. The adoring crowd of sycophants and investors who had practically worshiped him a week ago were now actively parting like the Red Sea whenever he tried to approach them.
As my father and I walked toward the VIP seating area, Dylan’s eyes locked onto mine.
There was no arrogance left in his gaze. No cold superiority. Just a hollow, desperate plea for mercy from a man who had finally realized he had burned down his own castle.
He took two unsteady steps toward me, raising a shaking hand. “Elena… please…”
Before he could take a third step, two security guards hired by Arthur stepped cleanly into his path, blocking him effortlessly.
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“Mr. Vance,” one of the guards said in a low, authoritative voice. “You are on the blacklist for this venue. Step back or we will have you physically removed.”
I didn't even stop walking. I didn't give him the satisfaction of an acknowledgment. I walked past him as if he were nothing more than a ghost, a phantom of a mistake I had finally managed to wash clean from my life.
