Chapter 5 - The Uninvited GuestsA collective gasp rippled through the sea of billionaires and socialites.
Celeste froze, her champagne flute hovering halfway to her lips. Her emerald eyes widened in sheer disbelief as she watched the cleaning maid and a toddler in untied sneakers walk across the imported French parquet flooring of her meticulously curated gala.
What was this peasant doing in here?
"Excuse me," Celeste hissed, dropping her society-hostess persona instantly as she marched across the room, her high heels clicking sharply against the wood. She intercepted Elena near the edge of the string quartet's podium, her face contorted in suppressed fury.
"Elena. Have you lost your absolute mind?" Celeste whispered, her voice a lethal hiss. "Security! Someone get security immediately! How did you let them past the gates?"
Before a guard could step forward, a deep, resonant voice echoed through the soaring ceiling speakers, cutting off any further command.
"They didn't bypass security, Celeste. I invited them."
The crowd parted as Grant Mercer walked down the grand staircase.
He wasn't wearing his usual rumpled work boots, nor was he wearing a disguise. He wore a flawless, bespoke charcoal suit, his silver-threaded tie neat, his posture commanding. But there was no warmth in his eyes—only a terrifying, glacier-cold stillness.
Flashbulbs popped instantly from the press gallery near the back doors. Reporters strained forward, sensing blood in the water.
Celeste spun around, her face instantly melting into a mask of wounded, bewildered affection. She rushed toward him, her hands outstretched. "Grant! Thank goodness you're here. There’s some terrible mix-up. This... this staff member brought her child inside the ballroom, and—"
She reached for his lapel, but Grant didn't move an inch. He didn't take her hand. He simply stopped two paces away from her, his gaze locked onto hers.
"It’s not a mix-up, Celeste," Grant said, his voice carrying clearly across the silent, stunned room. "In fact, it’s the most honest thing that has happened in this house in nineteen months."
Celeste’s hands hovered awkwardly in the air. Her smile wavered, replaced by a flicker of panic. "Grant, what are you talking about? The guests are watching. Let's talk in the study—"
"No," Grant interrupted smoothly. "Let's talk right here. After all, you've always loved an audience."
He turned his head slightly toward Elena and little Maisie, who stood bravely beside Mrs. Gable.
"Earlier today," Grant said, his voice echoing off the crystal chandeliers, "standing right outside that door in a delivery uniform, I watched you look down at a three-year-old child holding a glass bird. And I heard you say six words that changed my life forever."
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Celeste’s face drained of every trace of color. The emerald green of her dress suddenly seemed to mock the stark, deathly pallor of her skin.
"Grant... please," she whispered, her voice finally cracking.
