Chapter 4 - THE MIDNIGHT INVITATION
Clarissa did not leave the estate quietly.
At 11:00 PM, the roar of her sports car engine split the silence of the waterfront.
From the west-wing window, I watched the red taillights streak down the winding drive.
She was heading straight for her father's mansion downtown.
Running to the only man she knew who still had money and power.
Or so she thought.
Julian stood beside me in the dark, his hands resting in his pockets.
She's predictable, he muttered.
She thinks her father can buy off the district attorney like he did twenty-four years ago.
She doesn't realize the DA retired last month.
And his replacement is my former legal counsel.
I turned away from the glass.
The reflection in the window showed a woman I barely recognized.
A maid's uniform buttoned up to the chin.
A jagged, uneven chunk of chestnut hair missing from the left side of my neck.
I look like a victim, I said bitterly.
You look like a loaded weapon, Julian corrected.
He reached out.
His fingers lightly brushed the uneven edge of my hair where Clarissa's scissors had clipped it.
A shiver ran down my spine, starting at the nape of my neck and spreading through my entire body.
Don't fix it yet, he whispered.
Let her think she broke you.
Let her bring her father to the gala tomorrow night.
The annual Waterfront Charity Ball.
Every elite family in the city will be there.
Including the newspapers.
Including the cameras.
I looked up into his dark eyes.
And what will I be wearing?
Julian walked over to the mahogany wardrobe in the corner of the room.
He turned a brass key in the lock.
The doors swung open to reveal a single garment bag hanging in the dim light.
He unzipped it.
A dress made of midnight-blue silk fell into view.
It shimmered like dark water under moonlight, cut with clean, sharp lines that demanded absolute authority.
It belonged to my mother, Julian said quietly.
Before the fire.
Before they took everything from her.
It was her favorite.
I bought it back at an estate auction five years ago.
I stared at the dress.
It was my mother's size.
It was as if time had folded in on itself, bridging the gap between the smoke on Pell Street and the polished marble floors of this estate.
Put it on tomorrow, Julian said.
And let them see who you really are.
The next evening, the Waterfront Ballroom blazed with crystal chandeliers and the murmur of wealthy voices.
Men in tailored tuxedos and women draped in diamonds mingled near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor.
I walked through the mahogany doors right on the arm of Julian Vance.
The midnight-blue silk clung to my silhouette.
The uneven cut of my hair was left uncovered, stark and defiant against my pale neck.
Every head in the room turned.
Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through dry grass.
Isn't that... isn't that his maid?
Look at her hair.
What is Julian doing with her?
At the far end of the ballroom, standing beside her aging father Arthur Merrill, stood Clarissa.
She was wearing a white satin gown that looked like a bridal shroud.
Her face went completely white as she saw us.
She gripped her champagne glass so hard her knuckles turned translucent.
Arthur Merrill puffed out his chest, his face purple with alcoholic rage.
He pushed his way through the crowd toward us.
Vance! Arthur barked, his voice booming across the room.
Have you lost your absolute mind?
Bringing domestic help to a private charity gala?
Julian didn't even blink.
He handed his empty glass to a passing waiter.
Arthur, he said smoothly.
Allow me to introduce you to Nadia Vance.
My majority shareholder.
The room went dead silent.
The string quartet in the corner stopped playing mid-note.
Arthur let out a harsh, barking laugh.
Shareholder? Are you insane?
She's a kitchen maid!
I watched her scrub floors in this very building!
Not anymore, a calm voice rang out from the entrance.
Flashbulbs suddenly exploded in the darkness.
A dozen federal agents in crisp charcoal suits walked through the double doors, led by a tall man with an FBI badge open in his palm.
Arthur Merrill, the agent called out over the stunned silence.
You are under arrest for securities fraud, corporate embezzlement, and the arson-homicide of the Pell Street garment factory on October 14, 2002.
May you like
Clarissa screamed.
The champagne glass slipped from her fingers, shattering into a thousand diamond shards against the marble floor.
