17. Elisa
ELISA
The mechanical whine of the hydraulic scissor lift echoes off the vaulted ceilings of the ballroom.
"Lower the primary suspension cable by three inches.
" I project my voice over the noisy construction crew, pointing the tip of my gold pen at the rigging foreman strapped into the elevated harness.
"The gradient of the wisteria branches needs to cascade naturally toward the center table.
If it hangs too rigid, it looks like a corporate lobby, not a living canopy. "
The heavy steel cables grind against the overhead pulleys. The massive, twelve-foot floral chandelier—a sprawling, intricate web of deep purple and ivory blossoms—drops three inches, settling into perfect, breathtaking alignment.
I lower my clipboard, the sharp perfume of thousands of crushed petals filling the chilled air of the ballroom.
I stare at the cascading flowers, but the vibrant purple bleeds out of my vision, replaced by the churning, slate-gray waves of the ocean.
My mind wanders back to the weekend. The rumble of Donovan's voice as he crouched in the sand, guiding Derick's small hand.
The warmth of his cashmere overcoat shielding me from the coastal wind.
A sharp tap of an acrylic fingernail against my clipboard snaps my attention back to the ballroom.
"Earth to Elisa." Louisa leans into my line of sight, her bright coral lipstick curving into a massive smirk. She wears a yellow hardhat tilted back on her head. "You are useless today. I just watched you sign off on a delivery of hydrangeas using the wrong billing code. Twice."
"There are too many deliveries arriving at once," I state, adjusting the collar of my tailored, earth-toned canvas jumpsuit.
"The deliveries are fine." Louisa bumps her shoulder against mine. "You, however, are practically radiating a post-Hamptons glow. The man finally gave in, didn't he? You spent a perfect day playing house on a private beach."
The chaotic, beautiful reality of the weekend swells inside me, a warm fire pushing back the shadows of the last five years. I look at my best friend, my posture relaxing just a fraction.
"We are a family, Lou." The words slip out, a profound truth. "It is messy, and it is terrifying, but he is not the man I thought he was. He is..."
The ambient noise of the crew doesn't fade; it is swallowed by a sudden, sharp voice cutting through the space. The scent of powdery, expensive French perfume follows it.
"A breathtaking installation, Ms. Fleming."
The icy cadence drips directly into my ear.
I pivot. The soles of my boots scrape against the marble.
Did she hear it? My heart slams against my chest bone.
Catherine Swanson stands less than five feet away.
She wears a pristine, bone-white Chanel suit, the fabric devoid of a single crease.
A double strand of flawless South Sea pearls rests against her throat.
Her pale, calculating eyes sweep over the suspended wisteria canopy before locking onto my face.
She is back from London. The legal battle Donovan orchestrated failed to hold her across the Atlantic.
"Mrs. Swanson." I keep my tone even. "You are back from Europe early. The board indicated your schedule in Mayfair would extend through the week."
"London proved to be a minor, easily managed inconvenience." Catherine offers a smile that resembles a drawn scalpel. She takes a slow, deliberate step closer. "My priority is gala. I entrust the Swanson legacy only to those who understand the... weight... of their responsibilities."
She doesn't look at the flowers anymore. She looks at me, her eyes tracking every shift in my expression.
"I trust your weekend was restorative, Ms. Fleming?" Catherine tilts her head, the pearls clicking softly against her collarbone. "The Hamptons are lovely this time of year. So quiet. So secluded."
My heart stops.
A cold sweat breaks across my nape.
"I'm sure they are," I reply, my spine locking perfectly straight. "I didn't have the luxury of leaving the city. The Gala requires my full attention."
"You did not go to the Hamptons?" Catherine’s smile sharpens.
"My friend must have been mistaken. She mentioned you were seen on the beach with a child.
A young boy. I must admit, I was surprised.
I assume he is your nephew? Hector does not strike me as the domestic type, but one never truly knows the intricate, messy details of other people's families. "
The ringing in my ears drowns out the whine of the hydraulic lifts. The matriarch of the Swanson dynasty is not guessing. She is not making polite conversation. She is deploying a psychological weapon, testing my defenses.
Generational wealth. An armada of corporate litigators. The power to rip my son out of his Brooklyn bedroom and mold him into a cold, ruthless heir.
I ignore the raw burn of panic in my chest. I tilt my chin up, staring directly back at her.
"I’m sure your friend was mistaken. Hector does have a son, but we didn’t go to the beach recently.
" The lie slides off my tongue, my voice trembling the slightest bit despite my efforts to sound nonchalant.
"Family requires a significant investment of time, Mrs. Swanson.
A concept I am sure you understand intimately. "
The insult is wrapped in silk, striking directly at the rotting core of her relationship with Donovan and the son she drove to suicide.
Catherine’s eyes flatten into two chips of glacial ice. The fake sweetness vanishes .
Before she can issue a retaliatory strike, a massive, rusted iron bucket crashes onto the marble floor between us. The heavy CLANG shatters the tension.
"My apologies." Louisa steps directly into the line of fire, hauling a second iron bucket by the handle, obstructing Catherine’s view of me.
"The structural brackets for the secondary canopy just arrived, Elisa.
The Teamsters refuse to uncrate the rigging without your direct authorization signature. We are burning daylight."
Catherine takes a pristine half-step back, avoiding a splash of dirty floral water. She smooths the front of her white suit, her composure snapping flawlessly back into place.
"I will leave you to your manual labor, Ms. Fleming." Catherine turns toward the exit. "Do try to manage your time efficiently. The Gala approaches rapidly, and we would hate for you to be... distracted."
She glides across the marble, the rhythmic click of her Louboutins fading down the long corridor.
I do not wait for her to clear the lobby. I turn on my heel, abandoning the clipboard on the prep table.
"Cover the floor," I tell Louisa, my voice shaking.
“Elisa!”
I ignore her as I sprint for the service elevators.
The descent to the subterranean parking garage feels like an agonizing eternity. I burst through the heavy fire doors, navigating the concrete pillars until I reach the Fleming Botanicals logistics van.
I slide into the driver's seat, slamming the door shut. I punch the lock button. The confined space of the cab offers zero actual protection, but the physical barrier allows my lungs to finally drag in a ragged breath.
I pull my phone from my pocket. My fingers tremble violently as I hit the speed dial.
He answers on the first ring.
"Elisa." Donovan’s voice is immediate and grounding.
"She knows." The words tumble out. "Catherine just ambushed me in the Plaza ballroom. She asked about my weekend in the Hamptons. She asked about me having a nephew."
A dark, terrifying silence falls over the cellular connection.
When Donovan speaks again, his voice is low and threatening.
"Where are you?"
"In the logistics van. B2 level of the Plaza."
"Lock the doors. Do not move the vehicle.
" The sound of a heavy chair scraping against a floor echoes in the background.
"I am deploying Hayes and a four-man security detail to your location right now.
They will shadow you and Derick twenty-four hours a day.
Nobody gets within fifty feet of either of you. "
"Donovan, if she puts her lawyers on this?—"
"She will not have the capital or time for lawyers," he dictates. The argument is over before it begins. "I am accelerating the timeline. I am tearing the holding company apart from the inside. Go back to your shop. Surround yourself with your team. I am handling my mother."
The line goes dead.
The humidity of the Brooklyn greenhouse offers no sanctuary.
Every shadow cast by the towering ferns looks like a private investigator. Every delivery truck idling at the parking dock sounds like a threat. I spend the entire afternoon locked in the administrative office, jumping at the slightest mechanical whine of the ventilation fans.
Hayes and his men arrived fourteen minutes after I hung up with Donovan.
They operate with terrifying, silent efficiency.
Two men in dark suits stationed at the perimeter of the warehouse, scanning every face that crosses the threshold.
Hayes himself is currently parked outside Derick’s preschool in a black SUV.
The sheer reality of my life mutating into a high-stakes corporate battle is a crushing weight against my chest.
I sit at my drafting table, staring blindly at a stack of unpaid freight invoices. The digital clock on the corner of the screen reads 4:45 PM.
A sharp, shrill chime pierces the quiet office.
A new email notification drops down from the top of my monitor.
The sender address belongs to the executive assistant of the Swanson Trust.
I tap the mouse. The encrypted message opens, stark black text glaring against the bright white screen.
Ms. Fleming,
Per the direct instructions of Catherine Swanson, the accounting protocols for the Mother's Day Gala have been immediately amended. All remaining vendor invoices, structural ledgers, and final budget approvals must be submitted in person.
You are required to present the documents to Mrs. Swanson at her Upper East Side residence within the next 48 hours.
Failure to comply will result in an immediate breach of contract and the total suspension of all pending wire transfers to Fleming Botanicals.
I have fallen into her trap.