Chapter 4 - The Trap at the GalaAt 8:30 PM the following evening, the grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel in Manhattan was illuminated by massive crystal chandeliers and decorated with blooming white orchids and silver ornaments.
Over five hundred prominent business leaders, supreme court justices, corporate titans, and foreign ambassadors filled the room for the Harrington Maritime Annual Gala.
Julian Harrington stood near the grand stage wearing a ten-thousand-dollar tuxedo, holding a glass of vintage champagne. He was surrounded by executive board members, boasting about his upcoming appointment as Chairman.
"It is a tragedy," Julian declared smoothly, wiping a fake tear from his eye. "My poor brother Alexander is heartbroken over his son's terminal condition. As family, I am stepping up to manage Harrington Logistics during this devastating period."
Beside him stood Dominic Vance—a tall, sinister man in his fifties with slicked-back gray hair, smirking arrogance radiating from his posture.
"To family loyalty," Dominic toasted, clinking his glass against Julian’s.
Suddenly, the heavy double doors at the rear of the grand ballroom were thrown wide open.
The loud chatter among the five hundred guests dropped into an immediate, speech-bound silence.
Walking down the central red carpet, flanked by six broad-shouldered private security guards in charcoal suits, was Alexander Harrington.
He wore an magnificent, custom-tailored black tuxedo, his tall, six-foot-three frame radiating an unshakeable, terrifying authority.
And standing proudly beside him, wearing a breathtaking floor-length dark emerald silk evening gown, holding seventeen-day-old Theo in a white cashmere swaddle, was me.
A collective, horrified gasp swept through the room.
Julian dropped his champagne glass. The crystal shattered flat against the marble floor, sparkling wine splashing across his expensive shoes.
Dominic Vance’s face drained of every drop of color, turning an ugly, paper-white shade of green.
"A-Alexander?!" Julian stammered, taking a panicked step backward. "What... what is the meaning of this?! The doctors said the baby was in critical care!"
May you like
Alexander stopped five feet from the stage. He didn't yell. He didn't draw a weapon. He looked at his younger half-brother with absolute, weightless indifference.
"Theo was never in critical care, Julian," Alexander announced, his deep baritone echoing through the quiet ballroom via the main audio speakers. "He was simply wearing a nerve-block tag provided by your conspirator, Dr. Harrison."
Related Stories
