10 The Gala
The Gala
A sharp awareness settled over me as we drew closer. I’d done this before. I knew the steps, the rhythm, the game. But this time, the stakes felt higher. More eyes. More risk. I inhaled slowly, steadying myself.
It’s one thing to claim fame from the privacy of a hotel room, and quite another to strut into the middle of an unforgiving crowd and pretend you belong, when they all know each other, being tightly knit in their own universe and merciless to any stranger who dares breach their ranks.
The limo approached the Cosmopolitan with stop-and-go speed, waiting in line after several other limos and black luxury SUVs with deeply tinted windows.
One by one, the vehicles advanced to the cordoned, red carpet drop-off area, unloading their passengers before driving away.
Several volunteers—mostly young, beautiful women dressed sharply in business suits with miniskirts and high heels—welcomed the guests at the curb, checking names off lists affixed to clipboards.
Beyond the thick burgundy velvet cordons, media and passersby colluded to gawk at the local VIPs parading in front of them.
Camera flashes blitzed everywhere, sometimes too close to people’s eyes for comfort.
Several guests lifted their hands to their faces before security stepped in, pushing back on one annoying photographer even as another took their place.
My limo stopped right at the center of the red carpet, and my driver looked at me with a smile. “That’s it. Text me when you’re ready to leave.”
I nodded, painfully aware of the huge camera lens rattling against the rear windshield, trying to snap a photo of me. The driver got out and circled the vehicle, then opened my door.
I was ready.
Taking the driver’s hand with a smile, I got out of the limo, quickly finding my balance and posture in the limelight.
My Golden Age Versace gown clung to me like liquid gold, catching every flicker of the camera flashes, the deep V-neck plunging with elegance, the hand-embroidered scale motif cascading in a perfect dégradé of light and shadow.
I moved through the chaos with practiced ease and reveled in the spotlight, aware of the image I was projecting and quite proud of it.
An event coordinator approached me with a professional smile, a clipboard in her hand. I turned my attention to her, moving gracefully and willing myself to ignore the cameras while at the same time posing for them.
“Welcome to the Illuminate the Future Gala,” she piped enthusiastically. “I must say, your gown is amazing!” She sounded sincere, although I was sure she managed to find a compliment for each guest. “Is that hand embroidered?”
Dozens of cameras were trained on us, some shooting video. I was ready for it—chin high, expression unreadable except for a tiny smile on my lips. “I believe so, but don’t quote me on that. I didn’t exactly read the owner’s manual.”
She regaled me with a hearty burst of laughter. “You’re too funny . . . Ms. . . . ?” Her green eyes found mine.
“Taylor,” I said, handing her the invitation I’d just extracted from my envelope clutch purse.
“Of course, Ms. Taylor,” she said, quickly flipping through the pages to where the T’s were listed.
The tip of her pen coursed up and down the page while a frown started to crease her forehead.
Then she looked at me, a little flushed.
“I—I don’t have you here,” she said, sounding apologetic. “I don’t know how it happened—”
A sharp jolt ran through me. I hadn’t expected this. My name should’ve been there.
She looked over her shoulder, probably trying to find someone who could help her navigate the sticky situation, while I wondered whether my luck had just run out.
I’d received the invitation at the hotel, as I’d anticipated, with a note apologizing for sending it so late and saying, in handwritten cursive, that the organizers still hoped I could attend.
That invitation hadn’t arrived one minute too soon: only the day before, when I’d been just about to call the organizers and try to get my name on that list. There were limited opportunities to meet Winston Donovan, and they were few and far apart.
I couldn’t afford to wait for the next one.
What could’ve prompted the organizers to remove me from the list? I felt everyone’s eyes glued to me, poking like daggers drawing blood. I looked around me feigning indifference, and the only familiar face I saw in the crowd, immobile as a rock among the waves of restless onlookers, was Jack’s.
He’d found me again.
“Oh, here you are!” the event coordinator chirped, sounding so relieved I almost chuckled.
“You were at the top of the list, with our most distinguished guests. I sincerely apologize.” She crossed her arms, holding the clipboard at her chest while I peeked at the list and swallowed hard, my throat feeling parchment-dry.
I wasn’t the only Taylor on this list.
Two members of my so-called family were supposed to attend, and that could only mean trouble.
I had to keep a low profile and hope they hadn’t heard about me.
Wouldn’t want to meet me and ask questions I wasn’t ready to answer.
I’d done my homework. I knew what every member of the Taylor family looked like, but I found myself worrying I might be seated with them at the same table.
“It’s all right,” I managed to say, heading inside and forcing myself to keep smiling all the way to the elevators.
When I reached the glass doors, I checked the reflections out of habit.
Behind me, Jack was being turned away by the same event coordinator, with the help of a security guard.
He didn’t seem so happy about it, but I didn’t stop and observe what was going on further.
Screw him and screw whoever had sent him to harass me.
Any thought of Jack disintegrated when I entered the ballroom.
Rectangular chandeliers illuminated the setting with warm, soft lights.
A blend of luxurious and sophisticated scents filled the air—the smell of fresh flowers, and of polished wood and leather, mixed with the subtle aroma of gourmet hors d’oeuvres and delicacies, with hints of truffle, herbs, and freshly baked pastries.
Round tables set for eight people were draped in white linen, each one holding a flower arrangement with white orchids, miniature calla lilies, roses, and assorted lush greens.
Soft music floated through the ballroom, barely audible over the hum of conversation.
The room was already bustling, nearly every table claimed at least in part.
Guests clustered in small groups, their laughter and murmurs blending into a familiar rhythm, while only a few stragglers remained unseated.
Servers in crisp white jackets wove through the crowd, silver trays balanced effortlessly on their fingertips, champagne flutes catching the glow of the chandeliers.
Another event coordinator, a young man wearing an impeccable tux, directed me to my table. I thanked him, but lingered for a moment, looking at the older woman in red seated at the same table. “Is that—” I asked, pointing discreetly in her direction with my purse.
“Yes, that’s Evelyn Kensington,” he replied quickly, eager to please.
I knew the name from my prior research. She was the matriarch of a luxury real estate–development company, the generational kind, but one that had stayed modern and innovative, gaining fame for sleek, contemporary home designs that were all in the seven-figure price range.
I thanked the young man and headed to the table, where I sat next to Evelyn, even if the seating card placed me a chair over to the right.
Evelyn was at least sixty-five years old.
Her hair, completely white, was styled in a modern, short cut that fit her face perfectly.
She wore a dark red, off-the-shoulders gown in lush silk.
Her lipstick matched the shade of the shimmering fabric, and her smile was pleasant, well rehearsed.
A diamond necklace and pendant earrings completed her attire, sparkling like fire under the ceiling lights.
Adjusting my chair, I smiled and said, “Hello.”
Defense Attorney Blake: Please tell the jury the nature of your relationship with the victim.
Lamar Jackson: I was his helicopter pilot.
Defense Attorney Blake: During the return flight on May twenty-third, what did you notice about the interaction between the victim and the defendant?
Lamar Jackson: They were perfectly silent and still the entire flight home, which lasted about ninety minutes. They held hands, and she rested her head on his shoulder with her eyes closed.
Defense Attorney Blake: And that’s unusual?
Lamar Jackson: Before taking this job, I was a Coast Guard pilot for twenty years.
I’ve seen this kind of behavior in rescued families.
When they find each other again, they fly like that—embraced, quiet, perfectly still.
Tourists don’t. They take pictures and chat and laugh and gawk.
But not these two. I remember thinking she must be his soulmate or something.