Chapter 49
"This owner is incredibly mysterious—never shows his face," the middleman said in a low voice over the phone. "But this time, Horizon Realty's president Yves Astor personally sent the invitation. That's significant. If you can get in front of him and clear the air face-to-face, there might still be a way out."
Ryder chewed on this information for a long while, then looked at Xiomara sitting on the sofa across from him.
She'd just gotten her nails done—a soft pink, paired with her cream-white dress. She looked clean and gentle.
"Mara," Ryder chose his words carefully, "Saturday evening, come with me to a dinner gala. Dress nicely."
Xiomara looked up and blinked. "What gala?"
"The owner behind Blue Ridge Design will be there. When the time comes, say the right things—smooth things over. Someone of his stature, a young girl being sweet to him—he won't want to embarrass you. He'll have to give some face." Ryder paused and added, "You're pretty, young, and you know how to carry yourself. In these situations, a girl is more effective than me."
Xiomara set down her teacup, her lips curving upward. "Dad, I understand."
Footsteps at the door—Haven came downstairs, caught the tail end of the exchange, and raised an eyebrow. "Ryder, how old is this Blue Ridge Design owner?"
"Word is mid-forties. Apparently male, never shown his face publicly. Probably not easy to approach."
"A man—that's easy." Haven settled onto the sofa, her tone certain. "A man in his forties is exactly the type who responds to softness, not hardness. Mara walks in, and no matter how much resentment he's carrying, at least a third of it evaporates. But Ryder, bring something for him—don't go empty-handed. And prepare some 'special medicine,' just in case he can't hold his liquor."
She said "special medicine" like it was nothing.
Xiomara showed not a trace of discomfort. She stood, her smile warm and sweet. "Mom's right. Dad, I'll go pick out a gown."
Ryder smiled with satisfaction. "Mara really is sensible."
Haven said with pride, "Of course she is—she's our own daughter."
In the Windsor Manor living room, Valencia was turning over a gold-embossed invitation.
It had arrived that afternoon, delivered personally by Yves Astor's secretary, with word that Yves had specifically insisted Valencia and Seraphine both attend.
She was still thinking over how to bring it up when Seraphine came downstairs, a glass of water in hand.
Valencia looked up and held out the invitation. "Horizon Realty's gala. Saturday evening. Come with me?"
Seraphine took it and glanced over it. She'd received notification of this event three days ago.
Horizon Realty was one of Blue Ridge Design's largest clients, and Yves had emailed her personally—unfailingly polite in every line.
She hadn't planned to go. Galas meant crowds, and crowds meant risk of exposure.
But now Valencia wanted to attend. Refusing wasn't really an option. "Fine. I'll go."
Valencia's eyes lit up, then she remembered something. "Oh, is Octavius going? If he is, you two could—"
"Mom." Seraphine cut her off, expression flat.
"Alright, alright, I'll stop." Valencia reined herself in, but the smile at the corner of her mouth refused to disappear.
Saturday evening. Horizon Realty had reserved the entire ballroom at Silverlight City International Hotel. Crystal chandeliers blazed the hall white as day. Flowers lined the path from the entrance all the way to the registration table.
Guests arrived in a steady stream, the room glittering with jewelry and the clink of glasses.
When Ryder walked in with Xiomara, she wore a champagne-gold mermaid gown, her hair pinned up to reveal a long, elegant neck. Heads turned as she passed.
Her gaze swept the ballroom in a careful, unhurried arc—not looking at anyone's outfit, but searching for any connection to Blue Ridge Design. "Dad, what's this owner's name?"
"Unknown. Blue Ridge Design has always communicated only under the company name. The registered representative is a figurehead." Ryder lowered his voice. "Watch who I approach later. Read the situation."
As he spoke, he reached into his inner jacket pocket and pressed a tiny transparent packet into Xiomara's hand. "If you can get a drink with him, slip this into his glass. No taste, no smell—within ten minutes, he'll start feeling drowsy. You help him upstairs to rest. Once it's done, what can he possibly claim afterward?"
Xiomara looked down at the small packet in her palm, her lips curving slightly. She slipped it into her clutch. "Don't worry, Dad."
On the other side of the ballroom, Valencia and Seraphine walked in arm in arm.
Valencia wore a deep navy velvet gown, her presence quietly commanding.
Seraphine stood beside her in a minimal black halter gown—no jewelry except for a pair of tiny pearl studs Valencia had pressed into her hands the night before, insisting "a girl has to wear something to a gala."
The black gown was clean-cut and precise, a stretch of collarbone and long legs left exposed.
She moved through the glittering crowd and stood out precisely because she didn't try to—like a rough piece of black obsidian in a field of flowers.
She'd barely been inside five minutes when a brief hush fell near the ballroom entrance.
Octavius walked in.
He wore a midnight-blue suit with a subtle pattern, no tie, the top button of his shirt left undone.
A wave of investment managers and real estate magnates stepped forward to greet him. He acknowledged each with a nod, but his gaze moved past every shoulder, searching through the crowd.
Found her.
Seraphine.
He walked directly toward her, no hesitation in his stride.
Valencia spotted Octavius from across the room, her eyes brightening. She started to say something to Seraphine—then caught her daughter's expression and swallowed the comment, taking a meaningful sip of her champagne instead.
"Mr. FitzRoy—" A developer holding a glass moved to approach, and Octavius raised a slight hand in deflection without breaking stride. "Apologies. I have someone to see."
He stopped in front of Seraphine, looking down at her slightly. "You got here before me."
"You're not late either." Seraphine glanced up at him.
Octavius said nothing more. He simply stood at her side—like a silent lighthouse, staking his claim without crossing an inch of her space.
Nearby, several young men who'd been angling to approach Seraphine quietly stepped back.
On the other side of the ballroom, Xiomara was working her way through the crowd, searching for this "mid-forties Blue Ridge Design owner."
She'd asked several acquaintances. No one had seen him.
She was about to give up when she overheard a real estate executive nearby murmur to his companion, voice low: "That's the man behind Blue Ridge Design."
Xiomara spun around, following the man's gaze across the ballroom.
Near the cold buffet table on the other side.
Octavius stood there.