Chapter 3 - The Wolves in Black Tie
The Grand Ballroom at the Drake Hotel was a gilded cage filled with sharks in bespoke tuxedos. Crystal chandeliers hung low over tables draped in silver silk, and the scent of expensive white lilies battled the sharp tang of champagne. Three hours after leaving the basement vault, I walked into the ballroom on Roman Vale’s arm.
I wore an emerald backless gown that clung to every curve, chosen specifically because it gave me an armor of pure audacity. My hair was swept into an intricate updo, leaving my neck and shoulders completely bare. Beside me, Roman looked like a fallen king in a midnight-black tuxedo, his towering frame commanding the perimeter before we had even descended the grand staircase.
His hand rested firmly on the small of my bare back. His fingers were searing against my skin, sending waves of heat straight to my core. Every few steps, he applied just enough pressure to guide me, an effortless display of possession that had half the room turning their heads in stunned silence.
“Relax your shoulders,” Roman murmured into my ear, his breath tickling the loose tendrils of hair near my cheek. “You look like you’re walking toward a firing squad.”
“I am walking toward a firing squad,” I muttered behind a practiced, brilliant smile. “Julian Vance is staring at us from the bar like he wants to poison the caviar.”
“Let him look,” Roman said, unbothered. “He brought a legal team. I brought the only asset he can't buy.”
“Don't call me an asset.”
“Then stop trembling against my ribs, sweetheart.”
Before I could retaliate, Julian Vance detached himself from a circle of venture capitalists and intercepted our path. Vance was fifty, sleek, with silver-threaded hair styled with too much pomade and the cold, flat eyes of a loan shark who wore bespoke suits.
“Abigail Mercer,” Vance drawled, extending a manicured hand. “Chicago has felt terribly quiet without your father’s vibrant voice. I’m surprised you found the courage to return so soon after his tragic departure.”
I didn't take his hand. I merely let my gaze slide down to his wrist before returning to his eyes. “Julian. I see you’ve managed to secure an invitation tonight. I suppose security standards have slipped since I lived in Portugal.”
Vance’s smile thinned, but he chuckled smoothly. “Sharp as ever. Just like Conrad. Though I wonder if your sharpness will protect you from the audit committee meeting at nine tomorrow morning. There are several... discrepancies regarding your late father’s estate that require immediate clarification.”
He glanced at Roman, his gaze hardening into an open glare. “And Roman. Still playing loyal guard dog to a dead man’s debts? I hear your liquidity took quite a hit keeping Mercer Logistics afloat last quarter.”
Roman didn't flinch. In fact, he barely acknowledged Vance’s attempt at intimidation. Instead, he slid his hand from my back, wrapped his arm around my waist, and pulled me flush against his side. The sheer, blatant intimacy of the gesture drew a collective gasp from the elderly board members standing within earshot.
“My liquidity is my own concern, Vance,” Roman said smoothly, his deep voice carrying over the string quartet’s melody. “And Abigail’s debts are no longer Conrad’s. They belong to our combined estate.”
Vance froze, his champagne flute hovering inches from his lips. “What are you talking about?”
Roman reached out, took my left hand, and raised it into the crystal light. There, resting on my fourth finger, was an antique emerald-cut diamond ring—a family heirloom Roman had retrieved from his private safe forty minutes before we stepped into the limousine.
May you like
“Abigail and I filed our intent to execute the consolidation clause this evening,” Roman announced, his eyes fixed on Vance with lethal finality. “We are getting married on Saturday. The Mercer-Vale trust takes full control of fifty-one percent of the voting shares at midnight. If you attempt to file your injunction tomorrow, Vance, I will personally initiate an antitrust inquiry into your offshore holding companies before lunch.”
Vance’s face drained of color, his smug composure shattering like cheap glass. He opened his mouth to speak, but Roman had already turned away, pulling me through the parting crowd as if Vance were nothing more than a stain on the carpet.
