Chapter 8 - The Gala at the Fairmont
The grand ballroom of the Fairmont Olympic Hotel in downtown Seattle was a masterpiece of Italian Renaissance architecture: soaring gilded ceilings, massive crystal chandeliers throwing shimmering diamonds across the parquet floor, and walls adorned with hand-carved mahogany moldings.
It was the annual charity gala for the Pacific Northwest Architectural Preservation Society—one of the most prestigious social events of the year, bringing together city officials, cultural patrons, and the titans of Pacific Northwest commerce.
And tonight, I wasn't just attending as a guest. I was receiving the regional design award for my sustainable community housing project in Fremont.
Standing at the podium on the elevated stage, wearing a bespoke midnight-blue silk velvet gown that caught the chandelier light with quiet elegance, I delivered my acceptance speech, thanking my architectural team, my daughters, and the city of Seattle for believing in a vision of sustainable, community-driven urban planning.
When I stepped down from the stage to a wave of thunderous applause, flashbulbs exploded across the ballroom like a field of summer lightning.
Waiting for me at the edge of the stage, dressed in an immaculate black-tie tuxedo from Savile Row, was Damian.
He held out his hand, his slate-gray eyes shining with an unadulterated, fierce pride that made every award in the world feel completely insignificant by comparison.
"You were breathtaking, Sloan," Damian murmured, pulling me flush against his side as we walked back toward our private table.
"Thank you, Mr. Cross," I teased, adjusting my diamond drop earrings. "Though I noticed you spent half my speech glaring at the city councilman sitting at table two."
"He was staring at you with entirely too much enthusiasm," Damian replied without a single trace of irony. "I was simply calculating how difficult it would be to buy his municipal district and rezone his office into a parking lot."
I laughed, shaking my head as we took our seats. Across the table, Hazel and Iris—dressed in matching emerald-green party dresses—were happily devouring chocolate mousse while arguing about whether the moon was made of cheese or silicate rock.
"Mom, Dad says we can adopt a golden retriever puppy as soon as we get back to the penthouse," Iris announced, pointing her spoon at Damian with judicial seriousness.
"Did he now?" I raised an eyebrow, shooting a sidelong glance at the mafia kingpin sitting beside me.
"Every empire needs a guard dog, Sloan," Damian said smoothly, pouring a glass of sparkling cider for the girls. "And a golden retriever is an excellent diplomatic asset."
I couldn't help smiling. The man who controlled the underworld of the Pacific Northwest was currently negotiating pet adoption policies with an eight-year-old architect-in-training. Life was unpredictable, chaotic, and entirely extraordinary.
As the orchestra struck up a slow, elegant waltz, Damian stood up and held out his hand to me.
"Dance with me, Sloan."
May you like
I placed my hand in his, letting him lead me out onto the center of the parquet floor. As we moved together in rhythm with the music, surrounded by the glittering lights of Seattle’s elite, I rested my head against his broad shoulder, feeling the steady, powerful beat of his heart.
The past was buried. The future was secure. And the man who had spent a decade searching for a ghost had finally found his home.
