Chapter 7 - Sorting Through the Broken Glass
The quiet atmosphere of the alcove was broken by the sharp, hurried clicking of heels against the polished marble floor. A tall woman in a silver beaded gown—one of the senior foundation board members—approached us with a clipboard clutched tightly to her chest, her expression tight with manufactured cheer.
"Marcelo, there you are," she began, her eyes darting between me and the child. "The presentation is about to commence, and the committee needs your signature on the endowment release forms. Honestly, what was happening out here? There were rumors of some dreadful commotion by the stairs."
"There was no commotion, Evelyn," I said, standing up slowly and brushing an invisible speck of dust from my tuxedo trousers. "Just a minor logistical oversight by one of our guests. It's being handled."
Evelyn raised a heavily plucked eyebrow, her gaze landing briefly on the waitress, who instinctively stepped back, holding the silver tray like a shield. "Handled? Clara hasn't returned to the dais, and the donors are beginning to whisper. You know how delicate these foundation sponsorships are. If the family trust smells a scandal, our entire capital campaign for the new pediatric wing could stall."
"Let it stall," I said quietly.
Evelyn stopped mid-breath, her mouth parting in genuine shock. "Excuse me? Do you realize how many millions are tied up in—"
"I realize precisely what is tied up in this gala," I interrupted, my tone dropping an octave. "Reputations, foundations, and a great deal of theatre. But some things matter more than an endowment check, Evelyn."
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Before Evelyn could formulate a sharp retort, a heavy shadow fell across the marble floor. Clara emerged from the service corridor. The bright pink satin gown was wrinkled at the hem, and she had managed to pin her blonde hair back into a loose, lopsided updo, but the terrified defiance in her eyes was unmistakable. She looked at Evelyn, then at me, her chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths.
"Don't bother, Evelyn," Clara said, her voice trembling slightly but cutting through the ambient ballroom music with startling clarity. "Marcelo knows. Everyone is going to know sooner or later anyway."
