Chapter 2 - The Mask of a SaintThe grand ballroom of Carter Tower was a dazzling sea of black ties, glittering diamonds, and flashing camera bulbs.
When Ethan and I descended the private marble staircase together, a hush rippled through the front rows. Society columnists immediately began whispering behind gloved hands. It was rare for Ethan Carter to arrive at his own foundation gala accompanied by an executive assistant rather than a high-society date, but no one dared question him.
At table one, sitting directly beside Senator Collins, Dr. Andrew Vaughn looked every bit the part of the city's most celebrated pediatric cardiothoracic surgeon.
He wore his tailored tuxedo with effortless grace, his silver-streaked dark hair neatly styled, his boyish, handsome face lit up with a brilliant smile as he laughed at something the senator said. When he saw us approaching, his eyes locked onto mine.
For a fraction of a second, before the public smile slammed back into place, a dark, warning flash crossed his eyes—a silent reminder of what would happen when we got back behind closed doors if I didn't look happy enough on his arm.
"Ethan!" Andrew stood up, extending a hand with easy charm as we reached the table. "My friend. I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost in your own corporate vault."
Ethan didn't take Andrew’s hand.
Instead, he slid his hands casually into the pockets of his tuxedo trousers, looking down at the surgeon with an expression so utterly devoid of warmth that even Andrew’s smile faltered for a microsecond.
"Traffic, Andrew," Ethan said smoothly. "Though some things take longer to unravel than others."
Andrew chuckled nervously, shooting a sideways glance at me. "Well, we’re just thrilled to celebrate tonight. Fifty million for the heart wing—it’s going to save hundreds of kids. And, of course, having my gorgeous fiancée by my side makes it all worthwhile."
Before Andrew could reach out to pull me toward him—right over the bruised ribs hidden beneath my blazer—Ethan stepped slightly to the left, seamlessly blocking Andrew’s reach.
"Ava has been working twenty-hour weeks to coordinate this gala," Ethan said, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet tables surrounding us. "She deserves a seat of honor tonight. Not here in the back with the medical staff, but right up front at the head table. Next to me."
Andrew’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "Now, hold on, Ethan. Ava is my fiancée. Tradition dictates—"
"Tradition can wait," Ethan interrupted, his gray eyes locking onto Andrew’s with a chilling, predatory focus. "Or would you prefer I review the foundation’s administrative protocols with the board before dinner is served?"
The unspoken threat hung heavy in the air. Everyone in New York knew that crossing Ethan Carter meant financial exile. Andrew swallowed hard, forcing a tight, strained smile. "Of course. If you insist, Ethan. Whatever makes our star assistant comfortable."
As I took a seat at the head table, mere inches from Ethan, I looked across the room and saw the flashbulbs erupting. To the world, it looked like a powerful billionaire showing favor to a dedicated employee.
To me, it felt like the first breath of oxygen I had drawn in a year.
Up at the podium, the lights dimmed, and the master of ceremonies took the microphone.
May you like
"Ladies and gentlemen, please direct your attention to the screens as we present a special tribute to Carter Foundation's greatest medical partner... Dr. Andrew Vaughn."
The applause thundered through the hall. Andrew stood, basking in the adoration, kissing the air toward the crowd, entirely unaware that the man sitting twenty feet away was holding the switch to detonate his entire world.
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