Chapter 2 - THE WHISPER OF THE PAPERThe atmosphere in the grand ballroom shifted from tense anticipation to a state of suspended animation. Every eye in the room—from junior investment bankers to society dowagers draped in heirloom diamonds—was locked on the small patch of emerald green and black fur at the center of the floor.
Alexander stopped his advance. His eyes, the color of cold river stones, locked onto Victoria’s hand.
"Take it out," Alexander commanded, his voice a low hum that vibrated through the marble floorboards.
Victoria hesitated for a fraction of a second. Her breath hitched in her throat. Slowly, with movements as delicate as if she were defusing an unexploded shell, she slid her index finger under the heavy leather strap. The paper was stiff, high-grade linen bond, cool to the touch.
Bruno gave a low, deep rumble in his chest—not a growl of anger, but a sound of profound distress, like tectonic plates shifting beneath the ocean. His massive head stayed low, his dark brown eyes darting toward the three businessmen standing twenty feet away.
"It says..." Victoria’s voice wavered, slipping past her lips in a breathless rasp. She unfolded the crisp white sheet, her eyes scanning the handwritten script. Ink penned with a fine fountain pen, sharp and angular.
She swallowed hard, her throat dry as dust.
"‘Don't drink the champagne.’"
The words hung in the air, echoing off the gilded crown molding. For three endless seconds, nobody moved. Then, Marcus Thorne let out a sharp, breathless laugh that sounded entirely too loud in the dead silence.
"Absurd," Marcus barked, though his face had gone the color of skim milk. "A prank. A crude, tasteless prank by one of the catering staff. Harrington, your security is a joke. We came here to celebrate the merger, not to be subjected to theatrical parlor tricks."
Alexander didn't look at Marcus. His gaze remained fixed on Victoria, then drifted slowly down to the shattered champagne flutes glittering around Bruno’s paws. A puddle of pale effervescence pooled near the mastiff's heavy tail, already beginning to dry under the intense heat of the chandelier halogen bulbs.
"Presents don't find their way under a guard dog's harness by accident, Marcus," Alexander said softly. He turned his head, his sharp jawline catching the amber light. He looked at Julian Vance, whose fingers were now turning white around the stem of his glass. "And nobody drops a million-dollar deal over a prank."
"Are you accusing us of something, Alexander?" Richard Sterling spoke for the first time, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to sound indignant. Richard was the youngest of the three, his hair slicked back with pomade that smelled faintly of sandalwood and panic. "Because if this is some kind of power play—"
"Quiet, Richard," Alexander whispered. It was a command so absolute that the younger man snapped his mouth shut mid-sentence, biting his lower lip until a tiny bead of crimson appeared.
May you like
Alexander turned his full, terrifying attention back to the group of three. He didn't reach for a weapon; he didn't need one. He carried the absolute authority of a man who owned the mortgages of half the people in the room.
"Which one of you poured my glass?" Alexander asked.
