Chapter 7 - THE WOLF IN THE OPERA HOUSEThe Grand GalaThe Lyric Opera House was a monument to old-world opulence, glittering with crystal chandeliers, velvet drapes, and the elite of Chicago’s high society dressed in custom tuxedos and designer gowns.
When the massive oak doors swung open, all conversation died.
Adrian Whitmore did not wear a tuxedo. He wore a tailored obsidian suit, his silver tie catching the light like a blade. On his arm, wearing a breathtaking midnight-blue silk gown provided by Adrian’s private stylist, was Claire Bennett.
At the center of the grand ballroom, surrounded by city councilmen and pharmaceutical executives, stood Charles Ashford. He was holding a glass of champagne, laughing at a joke, until his eyes drifted toward the entrance.
The glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the marble floor with a sharp crash.
"Adrian," Charles choked out, forcing a strained, trembling smile as he stepped forward. "I... I didn't realize you were attending this year. And... Miss Bennett? What a delightful, unexpected surprise."
Adrian didn't stop walking until he stood towering over the older man. The bodyguards flanking Charles instinctively reached for their waistbands, but Marcus and four Whitmore operatives materialized behind them, cold Glock barrels pressing firmly against their spines.
"Save the pleasantries, Charles," Adrian said, his voice carrying clearly across the silent hall. "The board meeting isn't until Friday. But I figured we’d save everyone the trouble and hold an early vote tonight."
Charles’s face drained of color, his skin turning the grayish hue of wet ash. "I... I have no idea what you're talking about."
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Claire stepped forward, holding up a pristine, unburnt flash drive embossed with the Whitmore family crest.
"St. Catherine's Ward 4B," Claire said, her voice ringing clear and steady through the grand hall's acoustics. "The illegal pharmaceutical trials, the falsified birth certificates, and the murder of Caroline Whitmore. Every single file has been uploaded to federal servers on a twenty-minute timer. Unless you want the FBI kicking down your doors before midnight, Charles... you’re going to tell us who ordered the hit on my grandmother."
