Chapter 3 - THE FLAW IN THE GLASSThe question dropped like a lead weight into the middle of the ballroom.
Julian Vance adjusted his lapels, his fingers fumbling slightly before he caught himself. "We all handled the toast, Alexander. You know how these corporate milestones work. The board presented the vintage. It was a joint gesture. To ask who poured it is like asking which wave drowned a ship."
"It's a very specific question, Julian," Victoria said, her voice regaining a dangerous, razor-sharp edge as she stood up slowly from the floor, smoothing down her emerald-green gown. She kept one hand resting lightly on Bruno’s back, anchoring the massive dog. "And it requires a very specific answer. Because that champagne wasn't just poisoned. It was targeted."
Marcus Thorne scoffed, taking a deliberate step backward, his tuxedo jacket flaring slightly. "This is ridiculous. We're standing here taking orders from a woman who spends her days curating art galleries while real men keep this city's economy afloat. Harrington, control your guests, or we walk. And when we walk, your stock opens down thirty points tomorrow morning."
"Let it open at zero," Alexander said, his voice dropping an octave.
He took another step closer. The distance between the wealthy titan and the three executives closed to a mere ten feet. The background guests—dozens of Boston's elite—held their breath, some lifting smartphones discreetly beneath the edge of tables, recording every micro-expression, every bead of sweat on the executives' brows.
"You see," Alexander continued, his eyes locking onto Marcus’s left hand, which was now trembling visibly. "The bottle opened tonight was a 1945 Krug Private Cuvée. A gift from my personal cellar. It was locked in the private vault behind the wet bar. Only four people in this entire hotel knew the combination."
He paused, letting the silence stretch until it felt like taut piano wire ready to snap.
"Me. My head of security. The hotel manager. And the executive committee of the board." Alexander tilted his head, his salt-and-pepper hair catching the chandelier light. "Which consists of Julian, Marcus, and Richard."
A collective murmur rippled through the crowd of onlookers. Whispers broke out like dry leaves caught in a gust of wind.
Victoria looked down at the note in her hand again. The handwriting was neat, slanted at a precise forty-five-degree angle. It was an engineer’s hand. Or an accountant’s. Or someone who spent hours signing legal contracts.
May you like
She glanced sideways at the three men. Richard Sterling’s eyes were darting toward the service exit behind the dais as if calculating his odds of running.
"One of you," Victoria said quietly, her voice cutting through the whispers, "didn't just want to ruin the merger. You wanted a vacancy on the board."
