Chapter 7 - The Grand Masquerade
The night of the Sterling Foundation Gala was a study in opulence and rot. Chandeliers dripped crystal light onto the polished floors of the grand ballroom, and the elite of the city moved through the space like sharks in silk and tuxedoes.
Isla stood beside me, wearing a dress of midnight blue—a deliberate, symbolic choice. She was radiant, her chin held high, her eyes scanning the room with the clinical detachment of a predator. Beside her, I felt the weight of the drive in my clutch. It contained the final, damning evidence of the Sterling family's financial crimes and the personal testimonies of six women, including my daughter.
"They're watching us," Isla whispered, her voice barely a ripple.
Across the room, Julian stood with his father, Arthur. They were laughing, holding court, the picture of dynastic power. When Julian caught sight of us, his smile didn't falter, but his eyes went cold, turning to flint. He began to move toward us, cutting through the crowd like a knife.
"Don't react," I hissed. "The cameras are already on the balcony. Sarah’s team is in position."
Julian reached us, his voice a low, honeyed venom. "You shouldn't have come, Isla. You’re making a public spectacle of yourself. It’s unsightly." He leaned in, his breath cold against my ear. "And you, Mrs. Bennett. You are walking into a grave you dug for yourself."
"Is it a grave, Julian?" I replied, my voice projecting just enough to catch the attention of the surrounding guests. "Or is it a spotlight?"
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He tightened his grip on his champagne flute until his knuckles turned white. "You have nothing. Everyone here belongs to us."
"History," Isla said, her voice clear and ringing through the sudden lull in the nearby conversation, "is written by the victors. And tonight, the truth is being read into the record."
