Chapter 3 - THE GOLDEN CELEBRATION
At the Vance estate in Fox Hollow, the sun finally broke through the gray winter clouds, casting a brittle, pale light across seven acres of manicured lawn and frosted boxwood hedges.
Marcus Vance stood in the second-floor master suite, buttoning a bespoke Italian silk shirt. He inspected his reflection in the gilded three-way mirror. He smoothed down his lapels, adjusted his gold cuff links, and checked his Rolex.
Ten-fifteen.
Downstairs, the house hummed with the exquisite, expensive symphony of high-society preparations. Three classical musicians were tuning a cello and two violins in the conservatory. The scent of roasted heritage turkey, rosemary garlic stuffing, and black truffles drifted up the sweeping spiral staircase.
A gentle knock sounded at the door.
Sylvia entered, wearing an emerald velvet gown with a double strand of South Sea pearls resting against her powdered collarbone. She held a glass of mimosa in one hand and a gold clipboard in the other.
“The floral arrangements arrived from Manhattan,” Sylvia said, her voice smooth and triumphant. “White lilies and gold-dusted magnolia leaves. Simply exquisite. The caterer is plating the oysters now.”
Marcus turned, checking his jawline in the glass. “Did the cleaners ask any questions about the runner?”
Sylvia scoffed, taking a delicate sip of her champagne. “Marcus, darling, money eliminates curiosity. I gave the manager a five-hundred-dollar tip and told him my clumsy sister dropped an entire bottle of mulled wine during prep. It’s already been treated with industrial enzyme solvents. By tomorrow morning, the fibers will be pristine.”
Marcus let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He walked over to his mahogany credenza and poured himself two fingers of single-malt scotch. “And the cellar stairs?”
“Gretchen scrubbed them twice with bleach,” Sylvia replied dismissively. “The wood is damp, but clean. I placed a silver umbrella stand over the scuff mark where that pathetic girl hit the lower banister. No one will ever know.”
Marcus took a slow drink, feeling the burn settle his nerves. Still, an irritating itch remained at the back of his mind.
“Eleanor didn't scream,” Marcus murmured.
Sylvia paused, looking at him with mild disdain. “What?”
“When I called her at five. I told her Chloe was garbage at the terminal. I told her about the rug. Eleanor didn't yell. She didn't cry. She just asked where Chloe was, and hung up.”
Sylvia laughed, a high, mocking sound that echoed off the vaulted ceiling. “What did you expect her to do, Marcus? She’s an old woman living alone in a drafty cottage with plastic slipcovers on her chairs. She drives an ancient wagon and clips supermarket coupons. People like Eleanor don't fight; they endure. She’s probably sitting in some church basement right now, crying into a paper napkin and thanking the lord her daughter didn't die of exposure.”
Sylvia set her glass down and walked over, adjusting Marcus’s collar with possessive, manicured hands.
“Today is your coronation, my son,” she whispered intently. “Arthur Sterling controls eighty percent of the rail distribution in this quadrant. Vanessa is completely infatuated with you. When Arthur announces your promotion to Chief Operating Officer today during the toast, Chloe will be nothing more than an unpleasant memory. An unfortunate starter wife from an unfortunate background.”
A heavy chime echoed from the front foyer.
Marcus checked the security monitor on the wall. A sleek black town car had just pulled up the cobblestone drive.
“Vanessa is here,” Marcus smiled, draining his scotch.
Downstairs, Vanessa Sterling swept through the double mahogany doors. She was twenty-six, slender, wrapped in an Arctic fox fur coat, with honey-blonde hair and eyes that constantly surveyed the room to calculate the net worth of its contents.
“Marcus!” she purred, throwing her arms around his neck as he reached the bottom of the stairs. She smelled of French perfume and winter air. “Daddy is right behind us. He brought three bottles of the '82 Pétrus from his private cellar. He’s in a marvelous mood.”
She glanced around the foyer, her eyes flicking toward the staircase where, just eight hours earlier, Chloe had been dragged down the polished treads.
“Is she gone?” Vanessa whispered, a wicked, conspiratorial smile touching her lips. “The mouse?”
“Gone,” Marcus said smoothly, kissing her cheek. “Permanently. Her mother came and retrieved her. The house is entirely ours.”
“Good,” Vanessa sighed, running a manicured red nail down Marcus’s lapel. “Because I refuse to eat my holiday dinner in a house haunted by bad taste.”
Sylvia emerged from the drawing room, arms outstretched, her face practically glowing with manufactured warmth. “Vanessa, my darling! Come see the dining room. I had your family’s coat of arms embroidered onto the linen place settings.”
As the three of them walked toward the dining hall, laughing, Marcus felt completely invincible.
He had won. The weak had been discarded, the evidence had been washed away, and the prize was waiting at the table.
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He didn't notice the silent gray van that had just parked across the street, just beyond the wrought-iron gates, its dark tinted windows concealing three high-gain parabolic microphones aimed directly at his dining room windows.
***
