Chapter 4 - The Entrance
The silence that fell over the VIP lounge was absolute.
It wasn't the polite quiet of people pausing their conversations; it was the stunned, breathless vacuum of a room where every oxygen molecule had been suddenly sucked out.
The midnight-blue silk of my Balmain gown whispered against the imported wool carpet as I moved forward, every step measured, deliberate, and commanding. The 45-carat Aethelgard Heart diamond at my throat caught the chandelier light, casting brilliant flashes of azure fire across the mahogany walls.
I didn't look at Weston immediately. I let the sheer, suffocating weight of my presence wash over the room.
Arthur Sterling’s glass halted midway to his mouth, his old eyes narrowing in sudden, intense recognition—not of my face, but of the insignia pinned discreetly to the lapel of my security detail: the double-V crest of Veritas Capital.
Beside Arthur, Vanessa Sterling’s jaw went slack. Her eyes darted from the multimillion-dollar necklace resting against my collarbone down to my custom Christian Louboutin heels, registering the undeniable tier of elite power I occupied.
And then my gaze shifted.
Weston was staring right at me.
His glass of scotch slipped from his fingers, shattering against the floor with a sharp, explosive crack that echoed loudly in the silent room. The amber liquid pooled across the expensive rug, staining the fabric, but Weston didn’t notice. He was frozen, his face draining of every drop of color until he looked like a corpse carved out of marble.
“E-Elowen?” he stammered, the name tearing out of his throat in a ragged, disbelieving whisper. “How... how did you... what are you wearing?”
The entire lounge turned to look at Weston, then back at me, confusion rippling through the gathered executives.
“Mr. Prescott,” I said, my voice cutting through the heavy silence like a razor blade. It was low, perfectly modulated, and completely devoid of the meekness he had grown accustomed to hearing across our kitchen island. “Keep your voice down. You’re making a scene. And remember—imported rugs are expensive.”
Weston staggered half a step backward, his hand catching the edge of the mahogany table to steady himself.
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“You... you were supposed to be washing the dishes,” he whispered, his eyes wide with stark, unadulterated panic. “My mother said... you were at home...”
“Your mother,” I said, offering a cold, razor-thin smile, “is about as good at assessing reality as you are.”
