Chapter 4 - The Engagement Party Trap
Saturday evening arrived under a blanket of cold, crystalline November fog.
The Bellevue Country Club was nestled in the wealthy rolling hills of Westchester County, its stone facade illuminated by warm uplighting and lined with luxury vehicles. Valets in black vests scrambled across the circular driveway, opening doors for the elite of New York’s legal, financial, and architectural circles.
I stood before the full-length mirror in the master bedroom of our home, smoothing the fabric of my blush-pink silk gown. It draped gracefully over my seven-month bump. My hair was swept up in an elegant, intricate chignon, secured with diamond pins that had belonged to my mother. My makeup was immaculate—concealing any trace of the sleepless nights, highlighting the sharp contours of my cheekbones and the calm, steady fire in my eyes.
Behind me, Damon was adjusting his black silk bowtie in the mirror. He wore a bespoke tuxedo tailored on Savile Row, his cuff links engraved with his initials.
He caught my eye in the glass, smiling his charming, boyish smile, and stepped behind me, placing his hands gently on my shoulders.
“You look breathtaking, Em,” he whispered against my neck. “Motherhood suits you. You have this… glow. Like nothing in the world could touch you.”
“Nothing can,” I said evenly, meeting his gaze in the mirror without blinking. “Are you ready?”
“Born ready,” he said smoothly. “Owen’s father brought in three partners from Perkins & Co. tonight. If I play my cards right with Claire’s father and Owen’s network, I’ll be head of the litigation department by Christmas.”
“Ambition is such a powerful thing,” I murmured, picking up my clutch from the vanity. Inside was a tiny flash drive, encrypted and loaded, alongside a set of carbon-copy court documents stamped with the county clerk’s seal from four o’clock that afternoon. “Let’s make sure everyone sees exactly what you’re worth tonight.”
We took Damon’s Audi. The drive to the country club took twenty minutes. Damon chatted amiably about the market, about his upcoming cases, about how we should start looking at private preschool waitlists for our daughter. I listened, nodding at the appropriate pauses, marveling at the sheer psychopathy of the human brain. How could a man talk about preschool waitlists for a child whose mother he was actively robbing and betraying with her closest friend?
When we arrived, the grand ballroom was already humming with the sound of a string quartet, clinking champagne flutes, and the low, resonant murmur of old money.
The room was decorated in ivory and deep forest green. Towering floral arrangements of white calla lilies and roses dominated every table. Above the raised stage at the far end of the room hung a massive, high-definition projection screen, currently displaying a looping slideshow of Owen and Claire’s romantic vacations over the years: Paris, Santorini, Lake Como.
At the center of the room stood Claire.
She looked radiant. Her emerald silk dress hugged every curve of her toned body, her diamond engagement ring catching the light of the crystal chandeliers with blinding brilliance. She was laughing, her head thrown back, holding a flute of Dom Pérignon while a circle of socialite friends admired her gown.
Standing beside her was Owen.
Owen looked immaculate in his midnight-blue tuxedo, but his face was set in a mask of rigid, aristocratic composure. When his eyes caught mine across the crowded room, there was a split-second exchange—a subtle, microscopic nod of mutual acknowledgement.
The trap was armed.
“Emily! Damon!” Claire squealed, spotting us. She broke away from her circle and practically floated across the hardwood floor, opening her arms wide.
She wrapped her arms around my neck, pressing her cheek against mine. The heavy, suffocating scent of gardenias filled my nostrils.
“You made it!” Claire gasped, pulling back to look at my belly. “Look at you! You are glowing, mommy! Doesn't she look incredible, Damon?”
Damon’s eyes lingered on Claire’s bare shoulders for a fraction of a second too long—a micro-expression of illicit possession that had probably happened right in front of my face a hundred times over the last year without me realizing it.
“She looks magnificent,” Damon said, his voice dropping into that smooth, intimate baritone. “Congratulations, Claire. Where’s the lucky groom?”
“Right here,” Owen’s voice came from behind Claire.
He stepped forward, extending a hand to Damon. Damon took it, pumping Owen’s hand with aggressive, masculine camaraderie.
“Congratulations, buddy,” Damon said with easy warmth. “You’re a lucky man. Claire’s one of a kind.”
“Yes, she is,” Owen said, his grip lingering on Damon’s hand just a second longer than normal, his jaw muscle ticking beneath the skin. “Completely irreplaceable. Isn't that right, Emily?”
“Completely,” I agreed, smiling sweetly at Claire. “In fact, Claire, I spoke with the audiovisual technician on our way in. He said your father’s tribute video is queued up for eight-thirty. But Owen and I thought we should introduce it with a very special toast.”
Claire clapped her manicured hands together, her eyes sparkling with delight. “Oh, Em! You are too much! I can't wait. Make sure someone films it!”
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“Don't worry,” I promised her, feeling the cold steel of the flash drive pressing against my palm inside my clutch. “Every single moment of tonight will be permanently recorded.”
***
