Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Elsa
The revolving door breathes warm air onto my face the second I step into The Regent Club, and for a moment I stand just inside the lobby, letting the noise of the street fall away behind glass.
Late.
Of course I’m late.
The entire day has been a tedious relay of updates and reversals, a back-and-forth that makes my teeth ache in the same way small talk does.
First, I am going. Then I am not going because the flight is delayed.
Then I am going again because the flight is delayed, but not as much as they estimated, and apparently that means I can still make it—if I hurry—if I don’t mind arriving after the introductions, after the first impressions have already been made without me.
I hate arriving late. It invites commentary. It creates assumptions. It forces explanations.
And I especially hate arriving late to something like this.
A gala.
A word that always means the same thing: a room designed to make people forget what they’re supposed to be doing.
Lights chosen for atmosphere instead of visibility.
Music set at a level that forces you to lean in close.
Alcohol offered before anyone has had a chance to think clearly.
A thousand soft edges meant to dull caution.
Malcolm Crane insists I attend these events as if my presence is a talisman. As if being seen at the right time in the right place is as important as the work itself.
The board agrees, because they like optics and they like the illusion of control. They like the idea that the person who will ultimately decide whether this acquisition proceeds can be placed in a room and managed by proximity.
They are wrong.
The work is not in the room. The work is in the documents. The disclosures. The contracts. The filings. The chain of ownership that either holds or doesn’t. The compliance record that either matches the story being sold or doesn’t.
Paper is honest. It does not flirt. It does not charm. It does not laugh at jokes it doesn’t find funny.
People do.
I’m not trying to be stuck-up. I’m not trying to be a buzzkill. I like a good party as much as anyone. But not for business. Business should stay in business settings. This is pointless.
What am I going to learn about this Antonio Conti here that I won’t eventually learn through normal conversation, not in gowns and tuxedos?
I slide my phone into the clutch in my left hand and draw in a slow breath through my nose. The lobby smells faintly of something expensive—citrus and clean wood and fresh flowers—and everything looks like it has been polished until it can reflect light back at you. Even the air feels curated.
The Regent Club’s lobby is built to impress. Built to reassure. Built to make you think: this is safe, this is controlled, this is handled.
The kind of place where an acquisition pitch can be wrapped in velvet and served like dessert.
I can already feel the evening’s hands reaching for me—metaphorical hands, persistent, smiling, the kind that want to guide me toward comfort so I stop asking difficult questions.
Not tonight.
I take a few steps deeper into the lobby, away from the door, and find what I’m looking for: a large mirror set into the wall near a seating area, framed in brushed metal that catches the light.
A strategic mirror. A mirror placed where people can check themselves before they enter the main spaces, where they can adjust and compose and become whatever version of themselves they intend to sell to the world.
I stop in front of it and let my shoulders settle back into the posture I prefer—tall, straight-backed. Then I look at myself.
Blonde hair falls over my shoulders in soft waves. I check for flyaways or stray pieces. My makeup is minimal but precise: even skin, a touch of definition at the lashes, a dab of muted color on my lips. Nothing that can be called inviting.
I don’t need any more of that. Having a world-famous model for a mother can be both a blessing and a curse. My blue eyes, full lips, and high cheekbones are a blessing outside of work and a curse in professional settings.
Then there’s my height, which I also got from her. Tall enough to be intimidating to both men and women. Which is why I’ve invested a good amount of money in elegant flats, even when I wish to be wearing something more fashionable.
Paired with them is a black dress. A clean, fitted bodice with a simple neckline that modestly covers my chest, reasonably stylish but professional, with a skirt that falls in a smooth line to my knees.
The fabric has a subtle sheen that catches the light when I move, not glittering, not pleading for attention.
Sleeveless, which I regretted because of the cool air outside.
I glance at the faint reflection of the clutch in my hand, the understated jewelry—small diamond stud earrings, a matching tennis bracelet, a simple diamond pendant at my throat; nothing that screams or distracts. Everything about me says: I came because I had to, not because I wanted to be seen.
Good.
Do I sometimes wish to wear something more sensual or showy? Definitely. But I know, in my profession, it would send the wrong kind of message.
I smooth a hand down the side of the dress anyway, flattening a crease that isn’t really there. Habit.
Then I lift my chin a fraction and let my expression settle into neutrality—pleasant enough to be civil, blank enough to be safe.
Behind me, the lobby continues moving. A couple crosses toward the elevators. A bellman glides past with luggage. Somewhere deeper in the building, there’s a swell of sound, muted by distance, that tells me the event is already underway.
I check the signage and find the black-and-gold placard mounted on a stand: THE REGENT CLUB — GALA with an arrow pointing down a corridor.
Of course, it’s in a ballroom.
I turn away from the mirror and follow the arrow.
The hallway beyond the lobby feels like a transition by design—less open, more controlled, the lighting slightly dimmer, the walls dressed in textured panels that look soft until you get close enough to realize they’re another kind of expensive. The carpet under my shoes is thick.
The Regent Club makes you feel like you’re floating toward something exclusive.
I call it what it is: deliberate containment.
As I walk, I take in details automatically—camera placement in corners, the way the sightlines narrow, the doors that require staff to operate.
Nothing about this building is accidental.
It isn’t only meant to impress; it’s meant to control access, to direct bodies where they want them, to keep certain spaces invisible unless you have permission to see them.
A hotel and casino dressed in elegance, but built on systems.
That, at least, is honest.
The signage repeats at the next intersection—another black-and-gold placard, the same arrow.
I follow it past an alcove with a sculptural arrangement of flowers that smells like money, past a set of double doors with attendants stationed beside them in dark suits, their posture sharp, their gazes scanning without looking like they’re scanning.
Private security, I note, without having to try very hard.
The sound grows louder as I approach the ballroom entrance, and the air changes—warmer, carrying the faint sweetness of champagne and perfume and the heavier note of catering.
I can already hear laughter, too bright, too practiced.
The kind that tells me the gala is well underway and quite a bit of alcohol has already been served.
At the final turn, the entrance is clearly marked, the placard now reading BALLROOM — GALA THIS WAY with an arrow pointing straight ahead.
I slow.
Not because I’m nervous. Because I refuse to let haste dictate my entrance. I may be late, but I will not arrive flustered. I will not arrive apologizing. I will not arrive giving anyone an opening to decide I’m disorganized or overwhelmed.
I square my shoulders, tighten my grip on the clutch just enough to feel grounded, and take one more measured breath.
Then I step toward the ballroom doors.