Chapter 7 - The Trap at the Gala
The Grand Ballroom of the Richmond was even more packed than it had been forty-eight hours earlier.
The air was electric with tension. News cameras lined the perimeter. Over three hundred guests filled the tables, whispering feverishly behind silk napkins. The viral video of Brooke’s fall and her subsequent claims of a "terrorist maid" had captivated the nation’s gossip mills.
Brooke Hathaway stood near the podium in a dazzling emerald gown. She looked radiant, triumphant, and completely intoxicated by the spotlight.
Her father, Senator Richard Hathaway, stood near the bar looking uncomfortable, flanked by donors who smelled blood in the water.
At precisely 8:00 p.m., Brooke tapped the microphone.
*Clink. Clink. Clink.*
The room immediately hushed. Camera lights flared to blinding intensity.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," Brooke purred into the mic, projecting an aura of tragic vulnerability. "We are here to celebrate charity, but we cannot celebrate peace without truth. Two nights ago, right here on this floor, I was assaulted by an employee of the Richmond Grand."
She gestured to the giant projection screen above the stage.
"Her name is Nova Reyes. Hotel management claimed she was an ordinary hospitality worker. But thanks to independent investigative journalism, I have uncovered that this woman is an unregistered, violent foreign operative who was responsible for an explosion that killed dozens of civilians in Eastern Europe!"
Murmurs of shock rippled through the audience. Cameras flashed frantically.
"The owner of this hotel, Grayson Cole, shielded her. He fired me as his fiancée because I dared to ask for safety," Brooke cried, dabbing a theatrical tear. "I demand Nova Reyes’s immediate arrest, and I demand an audit of this hotel’s treasonous negligence!"
"Are you quite finished, Miss Hathaway?"
A voice like thunder echoed through the ballroom.
Every camera whipped toward the grand marble staircase.
Walking down the steps side-by-side were Judge Malcolm Reed, Ambassador Elias Morel, and Ruth Mercer.
And between them walked Nova Reyes.
The room gasped.
Nova was not wearing a plum maid uniform. She wore a floor-length, midnight-blue evening gown tailored to regal perfection. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders in elegant waves. Her posture was that of a queen surveying her realm.
And pinned proudly to her chest was the *Presidential Cross of Valor*, its gold and crimson ribbon gleaming beneath the crystal chandeliers.
Exposed on her bare right arm was the shrapnel scar—and the silver emblem of Unit Valkyrie.
Beside her, Grayson Cole walked in a tailored black tuxedo, his eyes blazing with protective fury.
Brooke’s microphone trembled in her hand. Her smug grin froze. "What... what is this? Security! Remove that woman!"
May you like
Not a single security guard moved. Every guard on the floor stood at rigid military attention, saluting Nova as she passed.
***
