Chapter 2 - The Woman at the Ballroom Doors
Dorian did not remember crossing the first ten feet.
One moment he stood beside Vivian.
The next, he was directly in Serafina's path.
“Sera.”
Serafina stopped.
Nikolai did not.
He moved half a step ahead of her.
It was a tiny movement.
Dorian understood the warning.
“Nikolai,” Serafina murmured.
The older man stepped aside.
Dorian stared at his wife.
“Moretti?”
Serafina's expression remained composed.
“You should go back to Vivian.”
“Answer me.”
“You asked for a divorce three hours ago. I don't believe you still have the privilege of demanding answers.”
Vivian reached them.
“Dorian.”
He barely noticed her.
“What is this?”
Serafina looked around the ballroom.
“This is a gala.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
Nikolai checked his watch.
“Miss Moretti, the trustees are waiting.”
Miss Moretti.
Dorian's stomach tightened.
Trustees?
Vivian laughed nervously.
“This is absurd.”
Nikolai finally looked at her.
Vivian's smile vanished.
“You're Vivian Lacroix.”
It wasn't a question.
“Yes.”
“Your father was Etienne Lacroix.”
Her face changed.
Dorian noticed.
“What does her father have to do with this?”
Nikolai's gaze remained on Vivian.
“More than you know.”
Serafina touched his arm.
“Not here.”
Nikolai nodded.
Dorian stepped closer.
“You're not walking away from me.”
Serafina looked at him.
Something unfamiliar lived behind her eyes.
Authority.
Not anger.
That would have been easier.
“I spent seven years walking beside you, Dorian. You simply never bothered to notice who was there.”
She passed him.
Guests parted.
Nikolai followed.
Dorian watched powerful men greet Serafina by name.
Men who had ignored him for years.
A federal judge kissed her cheek.
A shipping billionaire shook her hand.
The chairman of Meridian Bank bowed his head.
Dorian felt the architecture of his world rearranging itself.
Vivian grabbed his sleeve.
“We should leave.”
He looked at her.
“Why?”
“I don't like this.”
“You knew her father.”
“No.”
“Nikolai said—”
“I knew of him.”
“That's not what your face said.”
Vivian lowered her voice.
“Dorian, please.”
Across the ballroom, Serafina disappeared through a private door.
Dorian followed.
A security guard blocked him.
“Private meeting.”
“That's my wife.”
The guard didn't move.
Dorian almost laughed.
He owned three clubs where senators waited outside if he said they waited.
Tonight he couldn't follow his own wife through a door.
Then a man approached.
“Mr. Vale.”
Dorian recognized Julian Cross, Moretti Foundation counsel.
“What's happening?”
Julian handed him an envelope.
His name was printed on it.
DORIAN VALE.
“What is this?”
“Something Mrs. Moretti instructed me to deliver if you attempted to follow her.”
Dorian tore it open.
Inside was a single sheet.
NOTICE OF TEMPORARY SUSPENSION.
He read it twice.
Vale Strategic Holdings.
His company.
His voting rights had been suspended pending review of collateral ownership.
“This is nonsense.”
Julian said nothing.
Dorian looked at the second page.
His largest credit facility.
His Manhattan development.
His shipping contracts.
The holding company behind all three had the same beneficial owner.
M Holdings.
Dorian knew the initials.
He had simply never asked what they meant.
His gaze rose toward the closed door.
“Moretti.”
Julian gave a slight nod.
Dorian's phone rang.
His CFO.
Then his attorney.
Then the head of his bank.
Dorian ignored all three.
He turned toward Vivian.
She was gone.
He searched the ballroom.
Nothing.
He pushed through guests toward the terrace.
Vivian wasn't there.
He called her.
Straight to voicemail.
Then a message arrived.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
One photograph.
Vivian entering an elevator.
Beside her stood a man Dorian recognized.
Adrian Voss.
The one rival dangerous enough that Dorian had spent five years trying to destroy him.
Below the photograph were six words.
ASK YOUR MISTRESS WHO HIRED HER.
Dorian stared at the screen.
Behind him, the private door opened.
Serafina emerged.
He turned toward her.
She saw the phone in his hand.
Her expression changed.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
“You got one too,” Dorian said.
Serafina slowly reached into her clutch.
Her phone was vibrating.
One message.
One photograph.
Seven years earlier.
Dorian standing outside the church on their wedding day.
A red circle had been drawn around his chest.
Underneath were four words.
HE WAS NEVER THE TARGET.
Serafina looked up.
May you like
Nikolai was already reaching for his weapon.
Then every light in the ballroom went out.
