Chapter 8 - The Auction of Fools
By 7:30 p.m., the grand ballroom of the Drake Hotel was a sea of black tuxedos, sparkling diamonds, and high-society whispers.
The city’s elite had gathered for the hospitality gala, but the air was thick with salacious rumor. Everyone had heard that Whitmore Hospitality had imploded overnight. Everyone had seen the moving vans outside the Gold Coast townhome. Yet, Claire Whitmore had arrived anyway.
She was desperate. She had borrowed cash from an old college acquaintance to pay for a cheap cab ride, wearing the emerald gown she had refused to return to the boutique. Her hair was only half-finished, her eyeliner smeared with tears of rage, but she marched into the ballroom with her chin up, determined to find a wealthy donor to bail her family out.
Beside her shuffled Edward, his tuxedo hanging loosely on his frame, his eyes darting toward the security guards near the red carpet.
"Daddy, look," Claire hissed, pointing toward the main stage. "They haven't changed the banner! It still says Whitmore Hospitality on the gold screen! They wouldn't dare humiliate us in front of the entire city!"
"Claire, we shouldn't be here," Edward pleaded, clutching his chest. "We have no money to bid on the charity lots. We don't even have a table!"
"Mr. Whitmore?" a voice boomed from behind them.
Edward turned. It was Harrison Vance, the president of the Hotel Association. Harrison didn't offer a handshake; his expression was tight and formal.
"Harrison! Thank God," Edward gasped, reaching out. "There’s been a massive administrative error with my banks—"
"Edward, you need to step off the carpet," Harrison said coldly. "The title sponsorship was transferred this morning. The program has been completely reprinted."
"Transferred to whom?" Claire demanded, her voice shrill and loud enough to turn heads across the foyer. "My father founded this gala twenty years ago! Who could possibly replace him?"
"I did."
The voice cut through the ballroom like an ice pick through glass.
The double doors of the grand foyer swung wide.
A collective gasp rippled through the two hundred guests standing beneath the crystal chandeliers.
Elias Vale stepped onto the red carpet, towering, magnificent, his charcoal evening tuxedo tailored to absolute perfection. But he was not walking alone.
On his arm walked Eleanor.
The room seemed to run out of oxygen.
Eleanor wore the midnight-blue velvet gown, its neckline broad and elegant, perfectly framing the strong curve of her collarbones and the magnificent antique diamond necklace resting against her pale skin—the Vale family heirloom that hadn't seen the light of day in thirty years. Her dark hair was coiled into an intricate crown of braids, her makeup flawless, her hazel eyes blazing with calm, untouchable power.
She did not look like an accountant. She did not look like the woman who had hidden behind balance sheets. She looked like an empress who had arrived to inspect her newly conquered province.
Beside her, Elias kept one large, protective hand resting firmly over hers on his arm, his dark blue eyes sweeping across the crowd with cold, proprietary pride.
May you like
Claire’s mouth fell open, her clutch slipping from her fingers and hitting the marble floor with a dull thud. "Eleanor...?"
"Good evening, Claire," Eleanor said, stopping directly in front of her sister. Her voice was smooth, measured, and projected effortlessly across the hushed crowd. "I believe you were worried about symmetry tonight."
