Chapter 2 - The Stage Is Set
The venomous haze of the sedative still weighed heavy in my veins, but anger is a powerful antidote.
I pushed myself out of bed, resting my hands on the mahogany vanity to steady my shaking legs. The mirror reflected a woman who had spent two years dimming her own light to keep a fragile home together. My eyes were bloodshot, my skin pale, but beneath the exhaustion burned a fire that Christopher and Brenda had severely underestimated.
Mrs. Higgins stood by the bedroom door, tears hovering in her wrinkled eyes. "Mrs. Albright... please, you need a doctor. That woman put something terrible in your soup."
"I don't need a doctor, Mrs. Higgins," I said, my voice raspier than usual, but steady. "I need a coat."
Luke had already left the estate. While I was struggling to wake up, my eighteen-year-old son had dressed in a tailor-made charcoal suit, packed his encrypted tablet into a leather briefcase, and stepped into the backseat of a black Maybach. He was not going to the Grand Horizon Gala as a guest. He was going as the executioner.
Outside our Beverly Hills home, the warm night air smelled of night-blooming jasmine, but inside my mind, everything was cold, calculated, and sharp. I slipped into a midnight-blue velvet dress—simple, elegant, and untainted by Brenda’s thieving fingers. I didn't put on jewelry. I didn't need sparkle tonight; I needed steel.
"Driver, take me to the St. Regis," I commanded as I stepped into the second car waiting in our driveway. "And keep the speed high."
As the limousine glided through the winding hills toward Downtown Los Angeles, I kept my eyes glued to the live stream on my phone.
The St. Regis grand ballroom was a sea of black ties, diamond necklaces, and champagne flutes. Standing near the central stage, Christopher was basking in the adoration of his corporate peers. He was fifty-two, handsome in a ruthless way, wearing a tailored Tom Ford tuxedo. Beside him, Brenda leaned into his shoulder like a triumphant trophy wife.
She looked grotesque in my dress. The champagne silk was tailored for my silhouette, trailing slightly too long for her shorter frame. She kept casually adjusting her left wrist, turning my late grandmother’s gold bracelet toward the flashing cameras.
"Mr. Albright!" a high-society reporter from the Los Angeles Times called out, thrusting a microphone toward them. "We heard Mrs. Albright was suffering from severe health issues tonight. Is Miss Vance stepping in as the interim co-chair for the foundation?"
Christopher put a protective arm around Brenda’s waist, pulling her closer. His expression mimicked genuine grief and concern. "Regrettably, yes. Vivian’s mental and physical health has been declining rapidly over the past year. It breaks my heart, but she simply isn't capable of handling public duties anymore. Fortunately, Brenda has been a angel in our home, stepping up when my wife couldn't."
Brenda dabbed a non-existent tear from her eye, looking down modestly. "I only do what any devoted friend would do. Vivian needs rest... quiet rest away from the public eye."
In the back of the limousine, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached.
Declining health? Incapable? A angel in our home?
They weren't just pushing me out of my marriage; they were building a public narrative of my instability so that when I was eventually institutionalized—or worse—no one would ask questions.
Suddenly, the live stream camera panned toward the side entrance of the ballroom.
The crowd parted slightly. Luke walked in.
He moved with an unhurried, terrifying grace. He ignored the waiters offering trays of champagne, ignored the pleasantries of family friends who tried to greet him, and walked straight toward the front row near the main stage.
Christopher caught sight of his son and frowned. He stepped away from Brenda for a brief moment, approaching Luke with an irritated glare.
"What are you doing here?" Christopher hissed softly, though his mouth was visible on the zoom-in lens of the broadcast camera. "I told you to stay home with your mother. You look unkempt. Go back to the car."
Luke didn't flinch. He looked up at his father—a boy standing six feet tall, with my father’s dark gray eyes—and smiled a slow, chilling smile.
"I’m here to represent the family, Father," Luke said, his voice quiet enough for only Christopher to hear. "After all... isn't tonight all about giving back?"
Before Christopher could grab his shoulder, the master of ceremonies stepped up to the podium, his voice echoing over the high-tech surround-sound speakers.
"Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests, welcome to the 15th Annual Grand Horizon Charity Gala! Tonight, we honor the visionary founder of Albright Global Enterprises, Mr. Christopher Albright, and his family, whose generous donation of five million dollars will open our new pediatric wing!"
Applause thundered through the room. Brenda clapped enthusiastically, holding her hands high so my grandmother’s bracelet caught the bright stage lights.
"To kick off our donation drive," the host continued, "we invite young Luke Albright to say a few words on behalf of the next generation of the Albright family!"
Christopher froze. He hadn't authorized Luke to speak. He reached out to snatch Luke’s arm, but Luke slid past him effortlessly, taking the carpeted steps up to the stage three at a time.
He took his place behind the podium. He adjusted the microphone.
The room of three hundred powerful billionaires, politicians, and media moguls fell silent, waiting for a dutiful son to praise his philanthropist father.
May you like
Luke looked straight into the central broadcasting camera—straight at me through my phone screen.
"Good evening," Luke began, his voice crystal clear, echoing off the high ceilings. "Tonight, my father is donating five million dollars of my mother’s family fortune to charity. It’s a touching gesture. But before we open the bidding, there is something you all need to know."
