I agreed. Then I went to a high-end boutique on the Magnificent Mile and purchased a breathtaking, floor-length emerald green silk gown. It plunged elegantly at the neckline and hugged every curve. It was not a dress for a background character. It was the armor of a queen marching to war.
On the afternoon of the gala, the Chicago sky dumped a heavy blanket of snow over the city, creating a pristine white backdrop for the carnage I was about to unleash. Gavin went to the hotel early to “help Veronica,” texting me to meet him in the grand foyer at seven.
I sat in the back of my hired black car, checking the digital kill switch on my phone. The automated emails containing the complete dossier—the illicit texts, the offshore routing numbers, the photographic proof of embezzlement—were queued and ready to blast to the entire board of directors.
My phone vibrated. A secure message from Harrison: I am in position. The board members have arrived. See you on the battlefield.
I stepped out of the vehicle into the freezing winter air, the flashbulbs of corporate photographers popping around me. I pushed open the heavy mahogany doors of the luxury hotel, ready to strike the match.
Chapter 4: The Emerald Execution
The grand foyer was a magnificent display of excess, dominated by a towering crystal chandelier that fractured the light into a million glittering shards. I spotted Gavin near the coat check, holding a bourbon and chatting animatedly with two junior associates. He was wearing his custom tuxedo, looking exactly like the polished corporate shark he desperately wanted to be.
I walked toward him, the emerald silk trailing gracefully, the sharp click of my heels cutting through the ambient chatter. Heads turned. Conversations stalled. When Gavin finally noticed the shift in the room’s attention, he looked up. The polite networking smile completely vanished from his face, replaced by absolute, paralyzed confusion.
He was expecting a tired, anxious prop. He was looking at a woman radiating lethal, unbothered confidence.
“Good evening, Gavin,” I murmured, stopping inches from him. “I believe I am exactly on time.”
“Bethany,” he stammered, his voice tight with sudden, nervous tension as the junior associates awkwardly excused themselves. “You look… different. I thought you were wearing the navy dress we discussed.”
“I decided to make a statement tonight,” I replied smoothly.
Before he could attempt to reprimand me, a shrill, commanding voice pierced the air. “Gavin, darling, we need you at the VIP tables immediately.”
