Chapter 3 - The Art of the Mask
I led Amaya back inside through the side entrance, steering her away from the central crush of the dance floor toward the quieter alcove near the library doors. The heavy oak panels muffled the string quartet's rendition of a modern waltz, replacing the high-pitched melodies with a dull, rhythmic thud that vibrated through the floorboards.
"Stay here by the grandfather clock," I told Amaya, crouching down to make sure she was out of sight from the main corridor. "I need to speak with Genevieve for a moment. Do not move from this spot until I come back. If anyone else approaches you, walk straight into the library and lock the inner door. You remember how the latch works?"
She nodded solemnly, her braids swaying against her pale pink floral dress. "The brass one at the bottom."
"Good girl."
I straightened my jacket, adjusted my cuffs, and walked back out into the open expanse of the ballroom. The air was thick with the scent of roasted duck, white wine, and expensive cologne. Genevieve was still near the center of the room, now holding court with a group of elderly relatives from her side of the family. As I approached, her eyes flicked toward me with practiced precision, the glittering gold of her gown shifting under the chandelier light.
"There you are," she said, her voice musical and carrying just enough projection to charm the surrounding circle. "I was beginning to think you'd abandoned me for the stock ticker on your phone again."
"Just handling a few overseas logistics," I replied, stepping close enough to catch the subtle, expensive scent of her perfume—jasmine and crushed cedar. I kept my expression neutral, refusing to let the anger simmering underneath show through my micro-expressions. "Though I'm beginning to wonder if overseas is where the real action is."
Genevieve's smile didn't falter, but her left hand tightened slightly around the stem of her champagne glass, the knuckles whitening just a fraction under her manicured nails. "Everything alright, darling? You look a bit tense. It's just a gala; you don't need to carry the whole firm on your shoulders tonight."
"It's not the firm I'm worried about," I said softly, lowering my voice so that only she could hear over the murmur of the crowd. "It's the unexpected deliveries. I hear silver boxes make terrible wedding gifts."
For a single heartbeat, the air between us went entirely dead. The chatter of the relatives around us seemed to recede into a distant hum. Genevieve's eyes narrowed—just a millimeter—before her professional mask snapped back into place with terrifying speed.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," she murmured, leaning in closer so her lips brushed the edge of my lapel, looking to any casual observer like a bride affectionately whispering to her groom. "You've been listening to that child's imagination again. It's charming when she's playing dress-up, but letting it affect your mood is becoming tedious."
"Amaya doesn't make things up," I said, holding her gaze without blinking. "And Dante tells me the Zurich transfers are clearing right on schedule tomorrow morning."
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The glass in her hand trembled once, a tiny slop of pale champagne spilling over the rim and staining the lace cuff of her sleeve. She looked down at it, annoyed more by the stain than the accusation, before looking back up at me with a cold, hardened brilliance that I had never seen before in all the months we had been together.
"You really think you're clever, don't you?" she whispered, her voice dropping all pretense of warmth. "You think a few hacked logs and a kid's bedtime story change the endgame? The contracts are signed, the invitations are out, and by tomorrow afternoon, this entire estate belongs to the foundation. You're just the signature on the dotted line."
