Chapter 7 - The Gala Below
That evening, the Grand Regent’s grand ballroom was transformed into a glittering cathedral of crystal, silk, and silver for the annual autumn charity gala.
Two hundred of the city’s elite—politicians, CEOs, society matrons draped in diamonds—mingled beneath the three-story chandelier, sipping Dom Pérignon and patting themselves on the back for donating a fraction of their offshore tax shelters to local children’s hospitals.
I stood on the mezzanine balcony overlooking the ballroom, wearing a dark, custom-tailored Tom Ford tuxedo that Marcus had practically forced me into an hour earlier. But beneath the jacket, in my inside breast pocket, I carried Sarah’s notebook.
Marcus walked up beside me, holding a crystal flute of sparkling water.
“The board voted unanimously an hour ago,” Marcus said quietly, not looking at me, his eyes fixed on the glittering crowd below. “Richard Vance’s shares have been frozen pending a federal audit of the asset-stripping scheme. As of midnight, you hold ninety-four percent voting control of the parent corporation.”
“And the replacement directors?”
“Clean blood,” Marcus said. “No Ivy League snobs. I pulled two regional managers who started as dishwashers in our Cincinnati branch eleven years ago. They know what the pavement looks like.”
“Good,” I said.
Down in the center of the ballroom, the director of the charity foundation was stepping up to the podium to announce the evening’s major endowment.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the director’s amplified voice echoed warmly off the marble walls. “Before we begin our dinner service tonight, I want to announce a special, anonymous contribution to our pediatric rehabilitation wing. A gift of two million dollars, designated specifically to support long-term care for families recovering from corporate and financial hardship.”
Polite, cultured applause rippled through the room. Diamond bracelets clicked against crystal flutes.
I didn't smile. I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing the worn cardboard cover of Sarah’s notebook.
“Ethan?” Marcus asked, noticing my expression.
“Come on,” I said, turning away from the balcony.
“Where are we going?”
“Downstairs.”
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“The gala’s just getting started. You’re supposed to give the keynote toast in twenty minutes.”
“Marcus,” I said, stopping at the top of the grand staircase and looking back at him with a ghost of Sarah’s stubborn grin. “Let them toast each other. I have someone I need to take for ice cream.”
