Chapter 7 - The Room Turns Cold
Richard Mercer gestured slightly with his hand, and the security guard released Dominic with enough force to send him sprawling against the edge of a nearby linen-draped table. Glasses rattled; a floral centerpiece tipped, sending crimson rose petals spilling over Dominic's polished patent-leather shoes.
The guests parted like the Red Sea as Dominic scrambled clumsily to his feet. He looked wildly around the room, searching for an ally, a friend, an investor. But high society possesses an exquisite cruelty: they only recognize winners. Men who had clinked glasses with Dominic fifteen minutes ago turned their backs, deliberately engaging in loud conversations about quarterly earnings and summer homes in Martha's Vineyard.
"Hayes?" Dominic croaked toward the alderman. "Alderman Hayes, tell them—"
Hayes looked straight through him, as if Dominic were a pane of dusty glass, and took a deliberate step away.
Dominic turned toward Vanessa. "Vanessa, let's go. Get the car."
Vanessa looked at him, then looked down at the puddle of spilled champagne near his shoes. Her mask of ambition shattered into cold self-preservation.
"I think you should take a cab, Dominic," Vanessa said, her voice shaking with quiet cruelty. "I don't think it's good for the firm’s PR if we're seen leaving together."
Without another glance, Vanessa turned on her six-inch gold heels and vanished into the crowd toward the side exit, leaving him standing entirely alone in the center of a room that was actively erasing him.
"Security," Richard called out calmly to the hotel manager, who was hovering nervously nearby. "Mr. Vale has overstayed his welcome. Ensure he finds the service elevator. He wouldn't want the photographers outside to see how far he's fallen."
Dominic opened his mouth to shout, but two hulking guards took him firmly by the elbows, lifting him up and dragging him toward the private staff corridor. His desperate, furious protests faded into muffled echoes as the heavy oak doors shut behind him.
The ballroom seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. The orchestra resumed playing a soft, swinging waltz.
May you like
Richard turned to me, offering his elbow once again. "Shall we dance, my dear? Or would you prefer to accept the congratulations of the board?"
I looked around the sparkling room. "Let's dance, Uncle Richard. I've spent eight years sitting out."
