Chapter 5 - Whispers at the Gala
"You cannot be serious," I hissed, staring at the midnight-blue silk gown laid out on the bed of the penthouse master suite.
It was seventy-two hours after the attack on the 60th floor. The penthouse had been cleaned, the broken drywall patched, the glass replaced with military-grade transparent armor that could withstand a rocket-propelled grenade. But the air still carried the faint, ghostlike scent of violence.
Adrian stood in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting the platinum cufflinks on his tuxedo. He looked like an emperor preparing for a coronation, or an execution.
"The annual Mercer Foundation Gala has been scheduled for eight months," Adrian said calmly, his reflection meeting mine in the glass. "Every corrupt politician, every federal prosecutor on Vance's payroll, and every syndicate lieutenant in the Midwest will be in the Grand Ballroom of the Palmer House tonight."
"And you want to bring me?" I asked, incredulous. "You want to parade me in front of the people who just sent a hit squad into our living room?"
"No," Adrian turned around, his gaze sweeping over me with an intensity that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. "I want to bring *my wife*. And I want to show this city that the Mercer family is not broken. If we hide, Vance smells blood. He presses the advantage. He starts hunting the children in the shadows."
"The twins stay here," I said instantly, my voice leaving no room for compromise.
"The twins will be in the subterranean bunker beneath this building, guarded by fifty men under Marissa’s personal command," Adrian said, walking toward me. "They will be safer down there than in a military fortress. But you and I, Evelyn... we have to show our faces. We have to show them that you are back. That you are untouchable. And that anyone who reaches for my family will find their own throat cut before they can blink."
I looked at the gown. It was exquisite, elegant, and cut with a sophistication that screamed old money and absolute authority. It was a suit of armor disguised as silk.
"You're using me as bait," I said, looking directly into his cold, handsome face.
Adrian didn't flinch. He reached out, his knuckles brushing against the side of my neck, right over the pulse point that fluttered frantically beneath his touch. "I am using *us* as an anvil. And when Vance strikes, I am going to break his hammer."
Two hours later, the doors of the Palmer House Grand Ballroom opened, and the collective breath of Chicago high society caught in its throat.
The murmur started at the back of the hall and rippled forward like an electric current. Men in ten-thousand-dollar suits stopped mid-sentence; women dripping in diamonds turned their heads so fast their champagne glasses tilted.
Adrian Mercer had arrived.
And on his arm was the woman who had vanished six years ago—the ghost wife, Dr. Evelyn Carter, wearing his diamonds at her throat and his ring on her finger.
I held my head high, channeling every ounce of discipline I had developed defending scientific theses in hostile Harvard auditoriums. My hand rested on Adrian’s arm; beneath the fine wool of his tuxedo, his muscles were coiled, ready to strike at the first sign of danger.
"Look at them," Adrian murmured softly, leaning his head down toward mine as if whispering a lover’s secret, though his eyes were scanning the mezzanine above. "They thought I was bleeding out. Look at their eyes, Evelyn. They are terrified of you."
"They aren't looking at me, Adrian," I whispered back through a practiced smile. "They are looking at a dead woman walking."
"Mr. Mercer! Dr. Mercer!"
Reporters and society columnists pressed against the velvet ropes, their camera flashes exploding in a blinding cascade of white light. Daniel and six undercover security operatives formed an impenetrable wedge around us, parting the crowd like the Red Sea.
"Adrian, darling."
The voice came from the left, smooth as aged bourbon, laced with a venom so familiar it made my blood turn to ice.
A woman stepped out from behind a floral pillar of white orchids. She wore a backless crimson dress that clung to her curves like fresh paint. Her hair was platinum blonde, swept up in an elaborate chignon, and across the delicate hollow of her throat was a thin, jagged scar that had been partially covered with makeup.
Vivian Hale.
She was alive.
She held a champagne flute between two slender fingers, her blood-red lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her pale blue eyes.
Adrian didn't draw his gun. He didn't shout. But the temperature around us seemed to plunge below freezing. The crowd around us fell deathly quiet, sensing the seismic fault line that had just cracked open on the marble floor.
"Vivian," Adrian said, his voice flat, devoid of surprise.
"You look well, Adrian. A little gray around the temples, but it suits you," Vivian said, taking a slow sip of her champagne. Then, her gaze slid to me, her eyes glittering with a mocking, cruel amusement. "And Evelyn. How miraculous. I heard you were in Boston... playing with test tubes. Tell me, how are the little ones? Do they have their father’s temper?"
My vision narrowed to a pinpoint. The memory of the silver rattles in the velvet box rushed back, suffocating me with pure, murderous adrenaline.
Before Adrian could move, I stepped forward, closing the distance between Vivian and myself until I could smell her perfume—the sickeningly sweet scent of jasmine and vanilla that had coated the nursery rhyme note.
"If you ever speak about my children again," I whispered, my voice so low and lethal that Vivian’s mocking smile faltered for a fraction of a second, "I will not wait for Adrian to kill you. I will dismantle you myself, Vivian. Molecule by molecule."
Vivian’s eyes widened slightly, then she let out a soft, breathy chuckle. She leaned in, her lips hovering near my ear, close enough for her breath to warm my skin.
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"You think Adrian is your protector, Evelyn?" she whispered, her words dripping with venomous pleasure. "Ask him who paid for the car that picked you up from the airport. Ask him who owned the gray SUV. He didn't save you at O’Hare, Little Mother... he led you right into the slaughterhouse."
***
