Chapter 7: The Foundation Gala Invitation
The rain outside my apartment window didn't pour so much as it drifted, blurring the neon signs of the Laundromat across the asphalt into smears of red and blue. Inside, the radiator clanked in a steady, metallic rhythm that matched the ticking of the kitchen clock. I sat at the small laminate table with a cold cup of instant coffee, the white cloth napkin—now washed, pressed, and folded with meticulous care—resting beneath a heavy paperback book to keep its fibers flat.
My phone buzzed against the table. It was a text from Clara, sent from an encrypted number we had agreed to use after our brief conversation outside the corporate tower.
Front entrance won't work, the message read. Security manifests are biometric for the gala. But the catering staging area uses secondary badges for third-party servers. I left a spare uniform and an event access pass in locker four at the diner down your street. Be there at five.
I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the glass. Going back into that dining room during a high-profile corporate event wasn't just risky; it was walking directly back into Julian Vance's orbit. The man in the tailored black suit commanded rooms without raising his voice. His security detail scanned every face for anomalies, trained to isolate anything that disrupted the pristine surface of his public life. Yet the memory of the blonde young boy in the black suit crying with tears on his face remained sharp in my mind, refusing to let me pull back.
Dad doesn't know the truth.
The boy's whispered words against my shoulder echoed through the quiet apartment every time I closed my eyes. What kind of truth could a child hold that made a father like Vance look down with that intense, questioning expression of disbelief, demanding to know how I had managed to calm him? It wasn't a tantrum. It wasn't the typical distress of a tired child in an upscale restaurant. It was terror masked by the rigid formalities of a custom-tailored suit and a polished marble floor.
I pushed back from the table, the metal legs scraping against the linoleum. Walking to the small closet by the door, I pulled on my raincoat and zipped it to the chin. The streets outside were slick and quiet as I made the short walk down the block to the all-night diner. The neon sign buzzed, casting a jaundiced glow over the empty vinyl booths.
May you like
The diner was nearly deserted at this hour, save for the night cook wiping down the flat-top grill with a gray rag. I nodded to him, slipped through the swinging doors toward the employee lockers in the back corridor, and found locker four unlocked. Inside rested a neatly folded black apron, a fresh white button-down shirt, and a heavy plastic-encased credential card bearing a temporary catering barcode.
Clara had thought of everything, but the weight of the card in my palm felt heavy, like lead. Returning to the scene of the original incident under high-security conditions meant putting myself directly in the crosshairs of a man who owned skyscrapers, security networks, and half the real estate along the illuminated city skyline. But as I traced the edge of the access pass, I knew there was no stepping back. The foundation gala was only hours away, and the truth behind those tears needed a voice.
