Chapter 6 - A Public Coronation Gone Wrong
Olivia looked directly at Hannah. It was a glance that lasted no more than two seconds, but it was dripping with venomous triumph. A silent declaration: I took your company. I took your husband. I took your life.
Hannah didn't look down. She didn't blush. She simply touched the gold bracelet on her wrist.
On stage, Grant took the microphone back, basking in the glow of his perceived triumph. ""In honor of this new era,"" Grant proclaimed, ""I am pleased to announce that Mercer Energy is finalizing the acquisition of the historic Delaware Basin reserve, backed by our incoming senior partner, Carlyle Vance. This deal represents sixteen billion dollars in proven reserves, entirely owned and operated under the Mercer banner!""
Right on cue, the heavy double oak doors at the back of the grand ballroom swung open with a resounding bang that echoed across the vaulted ceiling.
The chatter in the room instantly died. Four security guards stepped aside instinctively.
Walking through the threshold was Carlyle Vance.
The seventy-two-year-old oil baron was a living legend. He wore an immaculate charcoal three-piece Western-cut suit, handmade leather boots that clicked like rifle shots on the hardwood floor, and a silver Stetson hat that he removed with slow, measured dignity as he stepped into the light.
Grant’s face lit up with intoxicating joy. He tapped the microphone. ""Ladies and gentlemen! Speak of the legend himself—Mr. Carlyle Vance has arrived to join our celebration!""
Grant waved toward the aisle. ""Carlyle! Come up to the stage, sir! We have a contract waiting for your signature!""
Margaret Mercer clapped her hands together in ecstasy. ""He did it,"" she whispered loud enough for the adjacent tables to hear. ""My boy conquered the entire South.""
Olivia leaned against Grant’s arm, preening like a queen about to be crowned.
Carlyle Vance did not look toward the stage. His weathered, steel-blue eyes scanned the four hundred guests with utter indifference, sweeping past the billionaires, the senators, and the socialites, until his gaze landed squarely on the back corner.
On Table Twelve.
Carlyle turned, completely ignoring the stage, and began walking down the long center aisle straight toward the back of the room.
The silence in the ballroom became suffocating. The click-clack of his boots was the only sound in the four-hundred-person hall. Grant stood at the podium, his smile beginning to freeze, his hand still extended in mid-air like an abandoned statue.
""Uh... Carlyle?"" Grant called out, a nervous edge creeping into his voice over the speakers. ""The stage is up here, sir.""
Carlyle didn't stop. He walked all the way to Table Twelve.
Brooke Mercer’s jaw dropped. The young cousins shrank back into their seats.
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Carlyle Vance stopped directly beside Hannah. With absolute, courtly reverence, the most powerful energy magnate in North America bowed his head, took Hannah’s hand, and pressed a brief, respectful kiss to her knuckles.
""Good evening, Madam President,"" Carlyle said, his deep Texas drawl ringing clearly through the stunned, soundless room. ""The jet was delayed by head-winds, but the legal filings cleared thirty minutes ago. We are ready whenever you are.""
