Chapter 9: The Gala Invitation Leak
Thursday afternoon brought an unexpected delivery to my apartment door: a heavy, cream-colored envelope embossed with gold foil. There was no return address, but the handwriting on the front was unmistakable—sharp, angular, and pressing hard into the thick cardstock.
I tore the envelope open in the quiet of my kitchen. Inside was a VIP pass and a formal invitation to the Erickson Foundation Annual Charity Gala at the Grand Plaza Hotel on Saturday night. Scrawled across the bottom in black ink was a short, handwritten note: If you think your little lawyer can protect you, come see how high society treats a shopgirl in the flesh. Julian will be waiting.
The air in the apartment felt suddenly heavy. Elena wasn't just trying to win an argument; she was setting a trap designed to humiliate me publicly, dragging me into her world to prove her dominance and force Julian into submission under the weight of scandal.
My phone buzzed on the counter. It was a text from an unknown local number, likely a burner phone. Don't go. It's a setup. They've invited the press.
I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the reply button before I locked the phone and dropped it onto the table. For two years, I had hidden behind closed doors, avoided restaurants in certain neighborhoods, and lived in the shadow of Julian's ambition. Every time I stepped back, Elena took another step forward, assuming my silence meant weakness.
I walked over to the closet in the small hallway and pulled out the back corner, where a simple, dark blue velvet dress hung in a plastic garment bag—something I had bought years ago for a university banquet, long before I ever met Julian in that midtown coffee shop. It wasn't designer silk, and it didn't come with a diamond tiara or a six-figure price tag, but it fit cleanly and didn't require anyone's permission to wear.
By Friday evening, Julian had called four times, each message more urgent than the last, begging me not to engage with Elena or respond to any provocations. I didn't return his calls. I spent Friday night reviewing the court injunction papers with Arthur Pendelton over the phone, making sure every legal protection was firmly in place before Saturday rolled around.
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Saturday night arrived with a cold drizzle that slicked the asphalt outside the Grand Plaza Hotel. Limousines and black town cars idled in front of the grand marble entrance, flashing their hazard lights as photographers crowded behind velvet ropes, cameras flashing blindly against the rainy dark.
I paid the cab driver a block away, pulled my dark wool coat tightly around my shoulders, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. My heels clicked steadily against the stone as I walked toward the glowing entrance, past the security guards and the flashing cameras, ready to face whatever was waiting inside the grand ballroom.
