Chapter 8
Saturday arrived faster than my heartbeat could prepare for.
The Ashford estate was lit like a palace, crystal chandeliers casting golden light across a hundred guests.
I arrived in a midnight-blue gown, my hair swept up, diamond earrings catching the light with every turn of my head.
I was not the same woman who had once crept through these halls in borrowed dresses, grateful to be noticed.
Tonight, I owned every room I entered.
"Ms. Cole!" An investor I recognized from London waved me over. "I didn't know you'd be in New York!"
"A brief visit," I smiled. "The Meridian project required my personal attention."
Across the ballroom, I felt his gaze before I saw him.
Dominic stood by the grand fireplace, a whiskey in hand, watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
But it was the woman beside him who held my focus.
Elena Marchetti, still wearing Vivienne Laurent's stolen face, draped herself on Dominic's arm like an accessory.
She was beautiful. The surgeons had done exceptional work.
But up close, I could see what four years of paranoia had done to her. The tightness around her eyes. The way her gaze darted to every new arrival.
She was afraid.
Good.
"Dominic," Elena cooed, tugging his arm. "Who is that woman everyone keeps talking to?"
"That's Serena Cole," Dominic replied, his voice carefully neutral. "She's the architect on our new tower."
Elena's head snapped toward me.
Recognition flickered behind her eyes, then vanished, replaced by something calculating.
She released Dominic's arm and glided toward me, champagne in hand.
"Ms. Cole," she extended her hand with a practiced smile. "Vivienne Laurent. Dominic's partner."
I shook her hand, making sure my grip was firm.
"A pleasure," I said. "I've heard so much about you."
"All good things, I hope?" She laughed, but her eyes were scanning me.
"Mostly," I smiled. "Though I'm curious — have you ever been to Switzerland? I have colleagues there who swear they've seen you before."
A microsecond of tension passed through her shoulders.
"Switzerland? Once or twice for skiing. It all blurs together."
"Doesn't it just?" I agreed pleasantly, then excused myself.
Phase one: seed the paranoia.
An hour later, the dinner portion began.
Natasha had planted three of our people among the catering staff. Hidden cameras were positioned at strategic angles throughout the dining room.
Dominic had arranged the seating so that Elena was between him and me.
The conversation flowed naturally until dessert, when I made my move.
"You know," I said, leaning toward Elena as if sharing a confidence. "The strangest thing happened last week."
"Oh?" She sipped her wine.
"A woman contacted my office. Said she had documents proving that Ashford Industries had been used for money laundering." I watched her face carefully. "She mentioned your name specifically."
Elena's glass froze halfway to her lips.
"That's absurd," she said, but her voice had lost its warmth.
"I thought so too," I continued. "But she was very convincing. Had bank records, transfer dates—"
"Who was this woman?" Elena's tone was sharp now.
"She wouldn't give her name. But she mentioned something about a clinic in Zurich? A Dr. Kessler?"
Elena went white.
Dr. Kessler was the surgeon who had performed her transformation. A name she believed no one else knew.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Elena said, standing abruptly. "Excuse me."
She walked quickly toward the powder room.
I caught Dominic's eye across the table.
He gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Phase two was about to begin.
The Ashford estate was lit like a palace, crystal chandeliers casting golden light across a hundred guests.
I arrived in a midnight-blue gown, my hair swept up, diamond earrings catching the light with every turn of my head.
I was not the same woman who had once crept through these halls in borrowed dresses, grateful to be noticed.
Tonight, I owned every room I entered.
"Ms. Cole!" An investor I recognized from London waved me over. "I didn't know you'd be in New York!"
"A brief visit," I smiled. "The Meridian project required my personal attention."
Across the ballroom, I felt his gaze before I saw him.
Dominic stood by the grand fireplace, a whiskey in hand, watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
But it was the woman beside him who held my focus.
Elena Marchetti, still wearing Vivienne Laurent's stolen face, draped herself on Dominic's arm like an accessory.
She was beautiful. The surgeons had done exceptional work.
But up close, I could see what four years of paranoia had done to her. The tightness around her eyes. The way her gaze darted to every new arrival.
She was afraid.
Good.
"Dominic," Elena cooed, tugging his arm. "Who is that woman everyone keeps talking to?"
"That's Serena Cole," Dominic replied, his voice carefully neutral. "She's the architect on our new tower."
Elena's head snapped toward me.
Recognition flickered behind her eyes, then vanished, replaced by something calculating.
She released Dominic's arm and glided toward me, champagne in hand.
"Ms. Cole," she extended her hand with a practiced smile. "Vivienne Laurent. Dominic's partner."
I shook her hand, making sure my grip was firm.
"A pleasure," I said. "I've heard so much about you."
"All good things, I hope?" She laughed, but her eyes were scanning me.
"Mostly," I smiled. "Though I'm curious — have you ever been to Switzerland? I have colleagues there who swear they've seen you before."
A microsecond of tension passed through her shoulders.
"Switzerland? Once or twice for skiing. It all blurs together."
"Doesn't it just?" I agreed pleasantly, then excused myself.
Phase one: seed the paranoia.
An hour later, the dinner portion began.
Natasha had planted three of our people among the catering staff. Hidden cameras were positioned at strategic angles throughout the dining room.
Dominic had arranged the seating so that Elena was between him and me.
The conversation flowed naturally until dessert, when I made my move.
"You know," I said, leaning toward Elena as if sharing a confidence. "The strangest thing happened last week."
"Oh?" She sipped her wine.
"A woman contacted my office. Said she had documents proving that Ashford Industries had been used for money laundering." I watched her face carefully. "She mentioned your name specifically."
Elena's glass froze halfway to her lips.
"That's absurd," she said, but her voice had lost its warmth.
"I thought so too," I continued. "But she was very convincing. Had bank records, transfer dates—"
"Who was this woman?" Elena's tone was sharp now.
"She wouldn't give her name. But she mentioned something about a clinic in Zurich? A Dr. Kessler?"
Elena went white.
Dr. Kessler was the surgeon who had performed her transformation. A name she believed no one else knew.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Elena said, standing abruptly. "Excuse me."
She walked quickly toward the powder room.
I caught Dominic's eye across the table.
He gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Phase two was about to begin.