Chapter 20 Gala Invite 1
I stood in the center of the library, my hands resting on the cool glass of my desk. It was Friday evening. Outside, the rain had finally stopped, leaving the world slick and black, reflecting the security lights that now swept the grounds in rhythmic, paranoid intervals.
Tristan sat in the corner, on the low leather sofa we had moved in to replace the milk crate. He was staring at his phone. He hadn't moved in an hour.
"She’s not going to answer, Tristan," I said, my voice cutting through the hum of the LED lights.
He didn't look up. "She has to. I sent her the photos of the shrine. I told her I know."
"You poked the bear," I said, walking over to the window. "Bears don't negotiate. They hibernate. Or they attack."
"She’s ghosting me," he murmured, finally dropping the hand holding the phone. He looked exhausted, his eyes rimmed with red. "My sister. The woman who taught me how to tie my shoes. She’s... she’s just gone silent."
"Silence is a tactic," I reminded him. "It makes you chase her. It makes you worry."
"I’m not worried about her," he said darkly. "I’m worried about what she’s planning."
He stood up, restless energy radiating off him. He walked over to me, stopping just inside my personal space. He smelled of soap and anxiety.
"You should skip tonight," he said.
I sighed, turning to face him. "I can't skip tonight, Tristan. It’s the Veridian Foundation Charity Auction. I’m the keynote speaker. I’m unveiling the model for the Opera House. If I don't show up, the board will think I’m unstable. Or worse, that I’m controlled by you."
"You are unstable," he argued, his voice rising. "You almost died yesterday. Your throat is still bruised. And there is a psychopath out there who has you on a hit list."
"And that," I said, poking him in the chest, "is exactly why I have to go. Ida expects me to be cowering. She expects the peanut incident to have sent me running back to Europe. If I walk onto that stage tonight, in a gown that costs more than her car, looking untouchable? It destroys her narrative."
Tristan grabbed my hand. His grip was tight, desperate.
"I can't protect you there," he whispered. "It’s a ballroom. Hundreds of people. Anyone could be..."
"Anyone could be Ida?" I finished. "She’s banned from the venue too, Tristan. I checked the guest list myself. Security has her photo."
"Lorelei will be there," he warned.
I stiffened. "Lorelei is an annoyance. Not a threat."
"She’s unpredictable. After yesterday... after the coffee incident... she’s humiliated. Humiliated people do stupid things."
"I can handle Lorelei," I said, pulling my hand away. "I handled her in the kitchen. I handled her at the gate."
I walked back to my desk and picked up the invitation. It was heavy cardstock, embossed with silver leaf.
The Veridian Gala. Black Tie.
"Get dressed, Tristan," I said. "Put on a tuxedo. Look like the billionaire who owns the city. If we look afraid, we lose."
He stared at me for a long moment. He looked like he wanted to argue, to pick me up and lock me in the panic room I was building in the master suite.
But he nodded.
"Fine," he said. "But I’m not leaving your side. Not for a second."
The dress was gorgeous.
I had ordered it from a designer in Paris who owed me a favor. It wasn't soft. It wasn't flowy. It was gunmetal silver, made of a liquid metallic fabric that looked like poured mercury. It had a high neck, long sleeves, and a back that plunged dangerously low.
It was severe. It was cold. It was perfect.
I stood in front of the mirror in the Master Suite, my temporary bedroom. The yellow walls glowed softly in the lamp light, a stark contrast to the steel of my reflection.
I applied my lipstick. Blood Red.
A knock on the doorframe.
I turned.
Tristan stood there.
He was wearing a tuxedo. Black velvet. Tailored to within an inch of its life. He looked devastating. He looked like the Prince of Darkness come to collect a debt.
His eyes swept over me, starting at the high neck, traveling down the liquid silver clinging to my hips, and stopping at the slit that went up to my thigh.
He swallowed hard. The sound was audible in the quiet room.
"You look..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Dangerous."
"That’s the point."
He walked into the room. He stopped behind me, looking at our reflections in the mirror. He looked at the yellow walls surrounding us, the nursery color he had fought for.
"Do you trust me?" he asked, meeting my eyes in the glass.
I hesitated.
I trusted him to take a bullet for me. I trusted him to kill for me.
But did I trust him with the truth? With the journals locked in the safe downstairs? With the knowledge that his sister had murdered his mother and our child?
No. He wasn't ready.
"I trust you to keep me alive tonight," I said.
"That’s not an answer."
"It’s the only one I have."
I turned around. I reached up and straightened his bow tie. My fingers brushed his throat. His pulse was hammering against his skin.
"Let’s go," I said. "They're waiting."
The Gala was held at the Metropolis Museum of Art. The massive stone steps were carpeted in red, flanked by burning torches that hissed in the damp night air.
The limousine pulled up. The flashbulbs started before the door even opened.
"Ready?" Tristan asked, his hand on the handle.
"Always."
He opened the door.
We stepped out.
The noise was a physical wall. Shouts. Clicks. The roar of the city.
Tristan put his hand on the small of my back. It was possessive, heavy. He guided me up the stairs, shielding me from the most aggressive photographers.
"Minerva! Minerva! Is it true you’re back together?"
"Tristan! What about the engagement?"
"Minerva! Look here! Who are you wearing?"
I didn't smile. I gave them the Ice Queen stare. I let the silver dress catch the light, turning me into a blade cutting through the dark.
We entered the Great Hall.
It was a sea of tuxedos and gowns, smelling of expensive perfume and ambition. Waiters circulated with champagne. A string quartet played something that sounded like a funeral march disguised as a waltz.
"Don't drink anything," Tristan whispered in my ear. "Unless I open the bottle myself."
"I know the drill."
We moved through the crowd. People parted for us. I saw the looks. The whispers behind hands, the greedy eyes scanning us for cracks. They knew about the video. They knew about the scandal. They were waiting for blood.
"Tristan! Minerva!"
Agatha Johnston materialized out of the crowd. She was wearing purple taffeta and looked like an angry bruise. Beside her stood Lorelei.
Lorelei was wearing white. Of course. A white, tulle confection that made her look like a debutante from 1950. She was smiling, but her eyes were tight, frantic.
"You came," Agatha said, her voice dripping with disapproval. "I told the board you were indisposed. I told them you had a... reaction."
"I recovered," I said smoothly. "Modern medicine is a miracle, isn't it Agatha?"
Lorelei stepped forward. She linked her arm through Tristan’s, effectively prying him away from me.
"Tristan," she cooed. "You look tired. Come, sit with us. Daddy is dying to talk to you about the zoning permits."
Tristan looked at her arm on his sleeve. He looked at her face.
He gently, but firmly, unhooked her arm.
"I’m here with the lead architect," Tristan said. "We have to present the model. I’ll speak to the Senator later."
Lorelei’s smile faltered. Her bottom lip trembled.
"But... the seating chart," she stammered. "I arranged for us to sit at the head table. Together."
"The seating chart has changed," Tristan said.
He stepped back to my side. He didn't touch me, but the alignment of his body was clear. He was orbiting me.
Lorelei looked at me.
For a second, I saw the woman I had conspired with in the foyer yesterday. The woman who had recorded the message for Ida. I thought we had a truce.
But then, I saw her eyes flick to Tristan’s hand, hovering near my waist. I saw the envy curdle the fear in her gaze.
She hated Ida. But she hated losing Tristan more.
"Fine," Lorelei whispered. "Do what you want."
She turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd toward the bar.
"Watch her," Tristan murmured to me.
"She’s retreating," I said. "Let her go."
"I don't like it. She’s too quiet."
The presentation went perfectly.
I stood on the stage, the spotlight blindingly bright, and unveiled the model of the new Opera House. It was sleek, modern, daring, a glass shard piercing the sky. The crowd gasped. The applause was thunderous.
For a moment, I forgot about the murder. I forgot about the poison. I was just Minerva Hayes, the architect. I was powerful.
I walked off the stage, high on adrenaline.
Tristan was waiting in the wings. He was beaming.
"You were incredible," he said. "You owned them."
"I know."
"We should celebrate," he said. "Let’s get out of here. Let’s go get a burger. Or... or just go home."
"I need to use the restroom first," I said. "Adrenaline makes me shaky."
"I’ll wait by the door," he said instantly.
"Tristan, it’s the ladies' room. You can't stand guard."
"I can stand in the hall."
I rolled my eyes, but I let him walk me to the corridor. He stood by a potted fern, looking menacing in his velvet tux.
I pushed into the restroom.
It was empty. Quiet. The marble surfaces gleamed under soft lighting.
I walked to the sink. I splashed cold water on my face, careful not to ruin my makeup. I looked at myself in the mirror.
The silver dress shimmered. I looked like a statue. A monument to survival.