Chapter 20 – A Dinner of Wolves
Sharon received the invitation in a thick, cream-colored envelope, her name written in flowing script. The address: a private estate just outside Zurich, one of the elite investors in Laurent Global's inner circle.
James Barnett had insisted she attend. Smile. Engage. Blend in.
But Sharon's pulse raced.
She knew this dinner wouldn't be ordinary.
Elite investors didn't just discuss business. They dissected people. Tested loyalties. And in this case, they would test her memory - her ability to impersonate Georgia Laurent flawlessly.
Every step she took toward the estate was measured. Her heels clicked against the cobblestones, each sound a metronome of tension.
The estate loomed, gates swinging open silently at her arrival.
Inside, the chandeliers cast soft golden light, illuminating faces in tailored suits and evening gowns. Glasses clinked; laughter was carefully restrained. Sharon felt like prey in the den of wolves.
Dinner began with polite conversation: the latest market trends, Laurent Global's philanthropic ventures, casual mentions of past gala events.
Sharon smiled. Nodded. Parried. Responded.
Then came the test.
One of the investors, a silver-haired man with piercing eyes, leaned across the table.
"Georgia," he said smoothly, "tell me about the summer of '98, at Lake Geneva. You were seven, weren't you? How did you break your arm?"
Sharon froze for a fraction of a second.
Seven. Lake Geneva. Broken arm.
Her mind scrambled. She had studied every scrap of footage, interview, and anecdote about Georgia Laurent. But this level of intimacy - memories from childhood - was not in any public record.
She forced a calm smile.
"Oh, yes," she said. "I fell off the dock while trying to reach the swan eggs. My nanny was furious... and then, of course, my father pretended he was scolding me, but secretly he was worried sick."
A faint nod. The investor smiled, a subtle but sharp test passed.
But Sharon knew better. Every anecdote recalled correctly was a temporary shield. One mistake - one hesitation - and she could lose everything.
As dinner progressed, the questions became sharper, more personal:
• "Who was your first tutor in French literature?"
• "Which painting in the Château de Versailles did your mother insist you study?"
• "The necklace you wore to the 2003 gala - who gifted it to you?"
Sharon answered each flawlessly, drawing on her months of training, her observations, and the footage she had obsessively studied.
But each response was a knife's edge. Every smile, every nod, every anecdote had to be perfect.
She felt eyes on her from across the room. Observing. Judging. Calculating.
And then, toward the end of the dinner, a subtle signal from one of the guests - a hand brushing a wine glass in a certain way, a brief glance - suggested she had passed... for now.
But Sharon knew the wolves were never sated. The testing was ongoing. Every investor, every board member, every staffer could be the one to expose her.
Her hands trembled slightly as she excused herself from the table.
Once in the quiet of the corridor, she exhaled slowly.
The real Georgia Laurent had lived with this constant scrutiny. She had known smiles could conceal knives. Conversations could be traps. Laughter could hide threats.
Sharon realized, with cold clarity: surviving this dinner had been a minor victory.
But in the world of Laurent Global, there was no rest.
And somewhere, in the shadows of the estate, someone had already taken note of her performance.
Someone was watching.
And Sharon knew that the wolves would circle again.
