Chapter 3 - The Gathering of Jackals
The estate in Winnetka was an exercise in vulgar excess.
Wrought-iron gates flanked by private security guards opened onto a winding cobblestone driveway lined with towering, ancient oaks wrapped in thousands of fairy lights. Valets in matching white liveries sprinted across the crushed-limestone courtyard, opening the doors of Bentleys, Aston Martins, and Mercedes Maybachs.
Inside the black Maybach, Maya looked out through the tinted glass, her fingers clutching the small satin clutch in her lap until her knuckles turned white.
“Breathe,” Adrian’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts.
She looked over. He was impeccably dressed in a bespoke midnight-navy tuxedo with satin peak lapels. His watch was understated, his dark hair brushed back with ruthless precision. He looked every inch the apex predator he was reputed to be in the boardrooms of Manhattan and Chicago.
“My cousin Vanessa has an eagle eye for weakness,” Maya admitted, her voice barely louder than the hum of the climate control. “At family dinners, she could always tell when my shoes were bought on clearance. She will know.”
Adrian reached across the leather console between them. He did not pull her hand away from the clutch; instead, he laid his broad palm flat over her white-knuckled fingers, squeezing firmly until she felt the solid, grounding heat of him.
“She knew your shoes were on clearance because she is a coward who preys on those who are vulnerable,” Adrian said calmly. “Tonight, she is not dealing with an isolated girl trying to survive. She is dealing with *us*.”
The car came to a smooth stop beneath the grand portico.
The valet stepped forward and pulled Adrian’s door open. Adrian stepped out into the crisp evening air, pausing for a moment as cameras flashed. Several society photographers had gathered near the entrance—this was, after all, the social event of the autumn for the North Shore’s commercial elite.
Adrian did not look at the photographers. He turned immediately toward the other side of the car, extending his hand as the second valet opened Maya’s door.
Maya took his hand.
As her heel hit the limestone, the emerald silk parted slightly, revealing the long, elegant line of her leg before draping gracefully to the ground. She straightened to her full height, her shoulders pinned back, her hair styled into an intricate, loose updo that framed the aristocratic angles of her jaw.
The diamonds and emeralds around her throat exploded with green and white fire under the flashbulbs.
A photographer gasped. “Wait—is that Adrian Cole? Who is that with him?”
Adrian ignored the questions entirely. He drew Maya’s hand through the crook of his arm, pulling her close enough that she could feel the steady, unhurried rhythm of his heartbeat against her forearm.
“Walk with me,” he murmured, his head inclined toward hers with the intimate familiarity of a devoted lover. “Let them look.”
They ascended the marble staircase leading into the grand ballroom. The sound of a forty-piece string orchestra floated through the air, mixing with the clinking of crystal flutes and the high-pitched, manic laughter of the ultra-wealthy.
The moment they crossed the arched threshold into the ballroom, the energy in the room shifted.
It began at the periphery—a sudden drop in conversation as guests turned to acknowledge the entrance of Adrian Cole. But the polite, expectant smiles died on their faces almost immediately as their eyes moved to the woman on his arm.
“Who is that?” a woman in Chanel whispered loudly to her husband.
“Is that a European ambassador’s daughter?” someone else murmured.
Near the center of the room, standing beside a five-tiered floral installation of white orchids and hydrangeas, stood the bride.
Vanessa Price was wearing an enormous, ruffled ballgown that had clearly cost a small fortune, but her face was pinched into its familiar expression of hyper-vigilant judgment. She was in the middle of laughing at something Grant Whitmore was saying when her gaze flicked casually toward the grand entryway.
The champagne glass in Vanessa’s hand tilted.
A pale stream of Dom Pérignon spilled over the rim, splashing directly onto the pristine silk of her custom bodice, but Vanessa didn't even notice.
Her jaw dropped open. Her eyes widened until the whites were completely visible, her gaze locked onto Maya’s face.
“Grant,” Vanessa hissed, grabbing her fiancé’s arm with enough force to tear his cuff. “Grant, look at the door. Look at the door right now!”
Grant Whitmore turned, irritated. “What is it, Vanessa? I was talking to the—holy hell. Is that Cole?”
“Forget Cole!” Vanessa spat, her voice climbing an octave in pure, unadulterated panic. “Look at who he’s holding!”
Grant squinted across the crowded room. “I don't know her. Some model he flew in from Paris? God, look at those emeralds. Those are museum pieces.”
“That is not a model,” Vanessa choked out, her face rapidly losing every drop of color until she looked paler than her bridal veil. “That’s... that’s Maya.”
“Maya who?”
“My cousin Maya!” Vanessa shrilled, her voice drawing the attention of several nearby guests. “The one who cleans houses!”
Grant stared at his bride as if she had lost her mind. “Are you out of your head? Your cousin is a university dropout who lives in a broken bungalow in Evanston. That woman is wearing half a million dollars around her neck and she’s walking with Adrian Cole like she owns him.”
Across the room, Maya saw Vanessa’s breakdown in real-time.
For two years, Maya had felt like an insect beneath Vanessa’s designer heels. She had cried in public restrooms, had hidden behind display racks at department stores, had wept into her pillow when the pharmacy refused to fill her father’s prescription until another card went through.
Now, she stood under the crystal chandeliers, and the woman who had tormented her was trembling with shock.
Adrian leaned his head down, his lips brushing the shell of Maya’s ear in a gesture that looked to the entire room like an intimate, romantic whisper.
“She’s staring, Maya,” he murmured, a low, wicked satisfaction vibrating in his voice. “Give her a smile. Make sure she knows you see her.”
Maya did not just smile.
May you like
She lifted her head, caught Vanessa’s panicked, bulging eyes from across forty feet of polished marble, and gave her a slow, dazzling, utterly dismissive tilt of her glass.
***
