Chapter 2 - The Pacific Grand Ballroom
The Pacific Grand Ballroom was glittering under three tons of imported Austrian crystal chandeliers. String quartets played softly in the background, competing with the hum of laughter, clinking champagne flutes, and the low whispers of high-society gossip.
At the head table, right beneath the golden banner of the Horizon Group, Christopher Albright sat with the effortless posture of a man who believed he owned the horizon. Beside him, draped in the champagne-colored custom silk gown that had been designed exclusively for Vivian's fiftieth birthday, sat Brenda Vance.
Brenda laughed musically at a joke made by the senior vice president of acquisitions, her bare neck flashing the unmistakable fire of Vivian’s diamond tennis necklace.
— You really outdid yourself this year, Christopher, murmured Arthur Sterling, the elderly patriarch of Sterling Logistics. Having Vivian here tonight, looking so radiant... well, it proves the Albright family is weathering the storm.
Christopher smiled smoothly, lifting his glass. — Vivian has always been dedicated to our philanthropic vision, Arthur. Though, as you know, her health has been... delicate lately. She sends her absolute best.
Across the table, Brenda lowered her gaze with a sickeningly sweet display of modesty, though her eyes scanned the room with the triumphant hunger of a conqueror. She had won. The house, the money, the status, the husband—it was all hers.
Suddenly, the heavy mahogany double doors at the back of the grand ballroom swung open with a sharp, echoing crack.
The string quartet stumbled on a measure. Conversations sputtered and died out.
Framed in the doorway stood a tall, slender figure dressed entirely in midnight black. The sharp lines of a bespoke velvet suit cut through the sea of pastel evening gowns and white tuxedos.
It wasn't Brenda.
As the woman stepped into the light of the crystal chandeliers, a collective gasp rippled through the front rows.
Vivian Albright walked down the center aisle. Her dark hair was swept back into a sleek, severe chignon. There was no hesitation in her stride, no sign of the pale, drugged woman who had collapsed on her bedroom floor two hours earlier. Her posture was erect, her gaze fixed entirely on the head table.
Christopher’s wineglass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the polished marble floor. Red wine pooled across the white rug like fresh blood.
Brenda’s face drained of every drop of color, her manicured fingers flying to her throat as if she had just seen a ghost.
— Vivian? Christopher choked out, pushing his chair back so violently it scraped against the floor. What... what are you doing here? You were sick!
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Vivian stopped five feet from the head table. She didn't look at Christopher. Her eyes locked onto Brenda, who was practically shrinking into the velvet upholstery of the head chair—Vivian’s chair.
— I was poisoned, Christopher, Vivian said, her voice carrying clearly across the silent, breathless room without the aid of a microphone. But a little arsenic can't keep a woman away from her own party.
