Chapter 3 - The Wolves in Black-Tie
The Beverly Wilshire ballroom was a glittering cathedral of excess. Crystal chandeliers worth more than most houses cast blinding prisms of light across shimmering silk gowns, expensive tuxedos, and the haughty, self-satisfied smiles of Los Angeles’s corporate elite. Waiters in crisp white jackets wove effortlessly through the crowd, balancing silver trays laden with Dom Pérignon and caviar canapés.
At the center of it all stood Spencer Albright.
He was holding court near the VIP dais, raising his glass in a toast to a group of senior venture capitalists from New York. His custom Brioni tuxedo fit him like a second skin, and his chest puffed out with the unbearable arrogance of a man who believed he was untouchable.
“To Albright Enterprises,” Spencer boomed, his voice carrying clearly over the hum of polite conversation and classical string quartet music. “Closing our series-C funding tonight, pushing our market valuation past three hundred million. We are officially reshaping the tech landscape of the West Coast.”
Polite, sycophantic applause rippled through the group. Cassandra clung to his arm like an expensive piece of jewelry, wearing a emerald-encrusted dress that hugged her curves tightly, her chin tilted up in a display of supreme social victory.
“And let’s not forget,” Patricia chimed in, adjusting her diamond choker as she joined the circle, “some people thought my son would be dragged down by dead weight. But a successful man knows when to trim the fat and discard what no longer serves him.”
The investors chuckled, nodding in agreement. Spencer smiled warmly, basking in the adoration.
Suddenly, the heavy, double-recessed mahogany doors at the grand entrance of the ballroom didn’t just open—they were pushed wide open with a sharp, echoing crash that cut through the quartet’s music like a gunshot.
Every head in the room turned toward the doorway, irritation and curiosity rippling through the sea of wealthy socialites.
Security guards in black suits rushed forward to intercept whoever had dared breach the VIP sanctuary, but they stopped dead in their tracks, their arms dropping to their sides as if paralyzed.
Standing in the doorway was me.
I wasn't wearing the faded, uninspired department-store dresses Spencer had forced me to buy on a strict allowance. I wore a backless, midnight-blue haute couture gown carved from silk-velvet that clung to my frame like liquid shadow, custom-tailored in Milan and delivered via private courier just an hour ago. On my ears hung two rare, flawless yellow diamonds that caught the chandelier light and threw it back with blinding intensity—a single earring worth more than the entire catering budget of the gala.
In my arms, Hazel was dressed in a pristine white velvet dress with silk ribbons, her hair tied back with a velvet bow, looking like a porcelain doll.
The murmurs started immediately. Whispers rippled through the front rows like wind through dry grass.
“Who is that?”
“I’ve never seen her at the country club…”
“Those diamonds... are those the Elizabeth-grade Canary drops? Only the Crawford family holds those!”
Spencer froze, his champagne glass hovering halfway to his mouth. His jaw went slack, his eyes widening in sheer disbelief as he stared at me, struggling to reconcile the timid, dowdy woman he had bullied an hour ago with the breathtaking, terrifying apparition standing at the entrance.
“Gwen?” Spencer muttered, his voice cracking slightly as he pushed through the crowd toward us. “What the hell are you doing here? How did you even get past the perimeter?”
Cassandra trailed closely behind him, her face twisting in ugly fury. “Are you insane? You brought that bleeding brat into a high-society event? Security! Throw them out in the street where they belong!”
Two burly security guards stepped forward, looking entirely uncomfortable as they looked at me, then at my diamonds, and then back at Spencer.
“Mr. Albright,” one of the guards stammered, looking nervously at my wrist. “Sir, we... we were told not to touch them.”
“Are you deaf? I pay your salaries!” Spencer snarled, grabbing one of the guards by the lapel. “Throw her out! Drag her out by her hair if you have to!”
Before the guard could even raise a hand, the heavy double doors swung open once more.
Thomas stepped through, flanked by four men in impeccably tailored charcoal suits, each carrying sleek leather briefcases. Behind them walked two senior partners from Sullivan & Cromwell, the most feared corporate law firm on Wall Street.
The entire ballroom fell into a dead, suffocating silence. Even the string quartet stopped playing.
Thomas walked straight past Spencer, completely ignoring him as if he were nothing more than a speck of dust on the carpet, and stopped directly in front of me. He lowered his head in a crisp, respectful bow.
“Good evening, Mrs. Crawford,” Thomas said loudly enough for the entire front row of investors to hear clearly.
The name hung in the air like a detonating bomb.
Crawford.
May you like
Spencer staggered backward as if he had been physically struck in the chest. His face drained of all color, leaving him a ghastly, pasty white.
“Crawford?” Spencer choked out, his eyes darting frantically between Thomas and me. “What... what did he just call you? Gwen, what is this sick joke?”
