Chapter233 Clifton Founded the Gathering
Ten minutes later, the two of them appeared together in the grand first-floor living room.
With her lipstick freshened, Miranda looked polished and razor-sharp. The cream suit was both elegant and commanding. She didn't need to do anything. Just standing there, she was impossible to look away from.
Beside her, Clifton sat in his wheelchair, now wearing a sleek silver mask that covered the upper half of his face, leaving only the clean line of his jaw and the firm set of his mouth visible.
It made him look even more unreadable than usual. Mysterious and faintly dangerous.
Behind him stood a bodyguard.
The man was built identically to Clifton, nearly the same height and frame.
Miranda glanced at him once and understood immediately. This had something to do with whatever Clifton was working on tonight.
She just hoped he'd come back safe.
At the head of the room, Mr. Prescott looked at the two of them and allowed himself a rare expression of satisfaction.
He turned to Clifton. "You should take Miranda out more often. People in our circles know you're married, but the two of you are barely ever seen together in public."
In his mind, if his grandson was willing to bring his wife to events, that meant his heart had finally settled. Which meant a great-grandchild wasn't too far off.
Clifton gave a small nod, his voice slightly muffled through the mask. "Understood, Grandfather."
"Good." Mr. Prescott smiled and waved them off. "Go on. The car is waiting."
Inside the Rolls-Royce on the way to the Pullman Estate, the cabin was quiet enough to hear each other breathe.
The closer they got, the more a quiet tension built in Miranda's chest.
This gathering was nothing like any event she had attended before.
Every conversation here could be worth hundreds of millions. Every handshake could make or break a company.
And she was here for one reason: to find a path forward for her company's public listing.
The weight of that sat heavily in her chest. Her fingers tightened around her clutch without her noticing.
"Nervous?"
The low voice came from beside her.
Miranda turned her head and met Clifton's eyes, sharp and steady even behind the mask.
She didn't pretend otherwise. She gave a small nod.
Clifton was quiet for a moment.
The soft light inside the car traced the clean lines of his profile. When he spoke again, his tone was easy, but it carried the quiet authority of a man who had never needed to raise his voice to be obeyed.
"Everyone who walks through those doors tonight, including the government officials, every single person in that room," he paused, letting each word land, "has less power than your husband."
It was an outrageous thing to say.
But Miranda knew it was the truth.
Something in her chest loosened. The tension that had been coiling there all evening began to dissolve.
Nerves meant weakness. And weakness was the one thing she couldn't afford to show tonight.
She wasn't just a business owner. She was the wife of the Prescott heir.
She had no reason to be nervous.
For the rest of the drive, Clifton dropped quiet pieces of information into the conversation, which executives had sensitivities they didn't like discussed, which department heads were quietly losing sleep over a particular problem. Each detail sounded casual, but it was exactly the kind of inside information that people spent years and fortunes trying to dig up.
By the time the Rolls-Royce pulled smoothly to a stop in front of the dazzling entrance of the Pullman Estate, every last trace of nerves had left her.
A valet opened the door. Miranda stepped out first, then turned and took hold of Clifton's wheelchair handles naturally, without a second thought.
They walked into the main hall together under a sea of eyes, some dazzled, some curious.
This was a world of money and ambition. A battlefield with no visible weapons.
They had only made it a few steps inside when a manager in a black suit approached quickly, his manner respectful.
"Mr. Prescott. Several of the directors are waiting for you upstairs in the conference room."
Clifton gave a brief nod, then turned to Miranda and said quietly, "I'll be right back."
Miranda nodded and watched as he was guided toward a private elevator, the look-alike bodyguard falling into step behind him.
It was no more than five minutes before the elevator opened again.
The man in the wheelchair rolled back out, same build, same mask.
Miranda took one look and knew. That wasn't Clifton.
The frame was identical. The mask was the same. But the eyes were wrong. None of the depth, none of the quiet possessiveness she knew. Just the flat, practiced calm of someone trained to be invisible.
The double.
Clifton had gone to take care of whatever he was really here for.
Her chest pulled tight for a moment.
But her face gave nothing away. She looked once and moved on, lifting a glass of champagne and stepping gracefully into the crowd as if nothing had shifted at all.
--
At the entrance to the estate.
A black Bentley arrived fashionably late.
Harrison straightened his tie as he stepped inside, walking quickly. A minor delay on the way had pushed him past his planned arrival time.
The moment he walked in, his gaze found her across the room.
Miranda.
She actually came.
She used the invitation he gave her and came.
A smile spread across Harrison's face before he could stop it.
Did that mean she was starting to open the door to him again?
The thought kept the smile stubbornly fixed on his lips.
He took a slow breath, smoothed the lapel of his suit, and made his way toward her.
Miranda wasn't surprised to see him. He had given her the invitation himself. Of course he'd be here.
"Miranda." Harrison stopped in front of her, warmth and barely concealed hope in his voice.
He spoke first. "Whitmore Group is a full member of this gathering. I'm also in the final stages of being elected as vice president of the board. Since this is your first time here, feel free to ask me anything."
He was trying to make himself useful to her. To remind her of his value.
Miranda gave him a polite, distant smile.
"I'm fine, thanks."
On the drive over, Clifton had already told her everything she needed to know about this gathering.
What was now one of the most exclusive trade organizations in the country had been founded ten years ago by Clifton himself, at eighteen, during the years he spent building his name independently before returning to the Prescott family. When the organization grew too large, he stepped back and handed it off to a board of directors.
Even so, every quarter without fail, those directors still reported every development back to Clifton directly.
Everything Clifton had told her on the way here was more than enough to carry her through tonight.
Beside her, Harrison kept his smile in place despite the clean brush-off.
From where he stood, the fact that Miranda hadn't simply turned and walked away, that she could stand here and speak to him calmly, was already significant progress.
He was working up to saying something else, something to close a little more of the distance between them, when a sharp sound cut through from behind.
A short, contemptuous laugh.
It was quiet. Brief. But it landed like a needle.
Both Miranda and Harrison turned around.