Chapter 4 - The Holston Grand Ballroom
Three nights later, Manhattan glittered beneath a biting November wind that whipped through the concrete canyons like a razor blade.
Black luxury sedans lined the curved driveway of the Holston Grand Hotel. Inside, the massive white-and-gold ballroom had been transformed into an extravagant forest of crystal chandeliers, cascading white orchids, and polished silver reflecting the wealth of New York City’s elite.
When the chauffeur opened the rear door of the Valkcari sedan, I stepped out onto the red carpet wearing a custom-altered, deep crimson evening gown that commanded immediate attention.
For one brief moment, as the camera flashes exploded around us like lightning, I remembered what that dress had looked like six months ago hanging on a rack in my shop. A wealthy client had returned it in tears after her fiancé called off the wedding, declaring the bold red color and dramatic silhouette made her look "too imposing."
I had bought it from my own inventory, stripped out the rigid boning, reshaped the waistline to honor my full hips, and softened the sweetheart neckline. It didn't try to make me look small. It made me look like a queen who had just conquered a kingdom.
Tiberio stepped out of the car behind me, impeccably dressed in a custom charcoal tuxedo with an unbuttoned white shirt underneath, his platinum hair catching the harsh light of the media floodlights.
Without hesitation, his heavy, warm palm settled firmly against the small of my back.
The gesture looked like the tender touch of a newlywed husband deeply in love with his stunning wife. Every photographer within fifty feet captured the angle, the smiles, the romantic posture.
At first, I assumed it was just part of our elaborate performance for the press. But as we stepped past the glass revolving doors and into the crowded lobby, I noticed how the pressure of his hand subtly tightened, guiding me smoothly away from a sudden surge of waiters, and how his eyes constantly scanned every exit, pillar, and shadow.
Inside the glittering ballroom, the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, roasting tenderloin, and whispered gossip.
We had barely taken ten steps past the receiving line when I felt Tiberio’s posture stiffen beside me.
His eyes locked onto a tall, silver-haired man standing near the champagne fountain.
Martin Falcone. A prominent real estate developer whose firm had aggressively tried to acquire the historic building housing my bridal studio six months ago—and the very man who had lost a multi-million-dollar hospital retrofit contract to Valkcari Seismic Restraint earlier that spring.
Next to Falcone stood another figure who made my breath catch in my throat.
My father.
Grant Walsh looked older than he had at the wedding. His expensive suit hung slightly loose on his frame, and the arrogant, effortless swagger that had defined his entire life seemed strained, replaced by the hunted look of a man trapped in a burning building.
Before I could process the sudden rush of adrenaline, Tiberio stepped slightly in front of me, his body acting as an immovable shield, blocking my father’s line of sight while fixing Falcone with a stare so lethally cold it could have shattered glass.
“Stay close to me,” Tiberio murmured near my ear, his breath warm against my neck.
May you like
“I’m not hiding from him,” I whispered back, my chin lifting defiantly.
“You aren't hiding, Brena,” Tiberio replied, his gray eyes sweeping the room once more before locking onto mine with fierce, unyielding intensity. “You’re about to watch him burn.”
