Chapter 8 - The Silver Glass
The ballroom of the Anatole Hotel was filled with crystal chandeliers, black-tie suits, and the hum of Texas high society.
I wore a floor-length emerald silk gown, my hair pinned back, my left cheek completely smooth beneath light makeup. The faint scar near my brow—a souvenir from the marble console—was invisible to anyone who didn't know where to look.
My father walked beside me, his arm offered, his posture as unyielding as the iron rails his freight trains ran on.
“They’re watching you,” he murmured as we crossed the marble lobby.
“I know,” I replied smoothly.
Across the room, standing near a towering ice sculpture, was Julian Mercer. He was in his late thirties, possessing the sleek, polished charm of a man who believed every room belonged to him by right of capital. Beside him stood a woman in a silver sequined dress, her back turned to us.
When she turned around, my breath hitched for a fraction of a second.
It wasn't Vanessa.
It was a young, rising interior designer from Austin—wearing a familiar vintage sapphire brooch on her lapel. A piece from Grant’s family collection that had mysteriously vanished from our safe before the divorce was finalized.
And standing just behind Mercer, half-hidden in the shadow of a marble pillar, holding a glass of scotch with knuckles white with tension, was Grant Whitmore.
He was thinner. His tailored tux hung a little looser on his shoulders. The arrogance in his posture had been replaced by a tight, watchful desperation. He looked like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, trying to convince the crowd he was preparing to fly.
Our eyes met across the crowded room.
Grant’s hand trembled slightly, the scotch sloshing against the rim of his glass. He didn't smile. He didn't sneer.
He stared at me as if he were looking at a ghost.
May you like
Julian Mercer noticed the sudden shift in Grant’s expression and turned, his sharp eyes locking onto my father and me. Recognizing the Vance patriarch, Mercer smiled warmly and began walking toward us, bringing a reluctant, pale Grant in his wake.
The lion was about to test the waters. But he didn't realize we had already surveyed the entire river.
