Breakfast at the Drake household was a silent war.
Barron sat at the head of the long table, an iPad propped up against a crystal pitcher. "Schmidt Lifestyle shares are down four percent," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Someone is shorting them aggressively."
Elza sat at the far end of the table, ten feet away. She sliced her omelet with surgical precision. She chewed slowly, her face blank.
Arthur walked in, carrying a silver tray with a single, cream-colored envelope. "Invitation, sir. Hand-delivered."
Barron glanced at it. "The Schmidt Foundation Gala. They have the nerve to invite me while I'm under investigation?"
"There's a note for the Mrs.," Arthur added, sliding a smaller envelope toward Elza.
Elza opened it. A slip of paper fell out.
Try to look presentable. Don't embarrass Preston.
Elza's hand spasmed. Just a twitch. Preston Hayes. The man Clotilde had stolen from her—not that Elza wanted him anymore, but the humiliation of that summer still burned. And now, Preston was the one trying to bury Barron.
Barron saw the twitch. He misread it completely. He thought she still cared about her family.
"You want to go?" Barron asked, his voice laced with disbelief. "To a party thrown by the people who treat you like a dog?"
Elza pulled out her phone. It is an obligation.
Barron let out a harsh laugh. "You have no spine. Arthur, get her a stylist. Make sure she doesn't look like a beggar. If I have to endure this farce for six hours, she needs to look the part of my wife."
He stood up and stormed out.
Arthur lingered. "Ma'am... Preston Hayes will be there. He's... he's not a friend of the boss."
Elza nodded. She knew exactly who Preston was.
She went to her room. Her burner phone buzzed. A text from her contact at the brokerage.
Intel confirmed. The Gala includes a silent auction for the North Lot. Schmidt estate is selling it to Hayes for development.
Elza stared at the screen. The North Lot was where her mother was buried. It was the only piece of land that mattered.
She wasn't going to the Gala to play nice. She was going to war.
Arthur brought in a rack of dresses. Sequins, feathers, bright reds and golds. They were loud. They screamed "new money."
Elza shook her head. She walked to the back of the closet, where a garment bag hung, untouched. She unzipped it.
It was black velvet. Long sleeves, high neck, backless. It absorbed the light. It was the "Velvet Noir" prototype, a gift from a designer she had helped avoid bankruptcy two years ago with a well-timed loan.
Arthur hesitated. "It's a bit... plain, isn't it?"
Elza just looked at him.
That evening, Barron waited in the foyer. He checked his watch, annoyed. "If she's not down in two minutes, we leave without—"
He stopped.
Elza was descending the stairs. The black velvet molded to her body like a second skin. The contrast against her pale skin was striking. She wore no jewelry, no diamonds. Her hair was pulled back in a severe, elegant bun.
She looked dangerous.
Barron felt a pull in his gut, a physical reaction he hadn't expected. He swallowed, looking away.
"It's barely adequate," he lied, his voice rough.
They got into the limousine. The space was confined. Barron's leg brushed against the velvet of her dress. The fabric was soft, impossibly soft.
He shifted away, staring out the window. "Don't speak tonight. Not that you can. Just... stand there."
Elza looked at his reflection in the glass. She saw the tension in his jaw. She saw the fear he was hiding behind the aggression.
She smoothed the velvet over her knee. Tonight, she wouldn't just stand there.
