Chapter 3 - The Gala at Lake Anna
By five o’clock the following afternoon, Whispering Pines Way looked like a concourse outside a private aviation terminal.
Valet attendants in black waistcoats were sprinting across the crushed-slate driveway, parking an endless stream of Mercedes G-Wagons, Range Rovers, and Porsche Cayennes beneath the amber canopies of the red oaks. Floodlights hidden in the mulch cast warm gold beams up the thirty-foot fieldstone pillars of the house. From the back terraces, the sound of a string quartet playing Vivaldi drifted over the black, glass-smooth water of the lake.
Inside the kitchen, Diane was losing her temper.
“The truffles are supposed to be shaved over the risotto at the station, not in the back!” she hissed at the head caterer, her face pinched beneath two layers of foundation and an expertly applied layer of powder. She was wearing an emerald silk gown that had cost eight thousand dollars at Bergdorf Goodman in Manhattan—charged to a corporate credit card that Marcus had promised would clear by Friday. “If the senators get cold food, I will personally withhold the final thirty percent of your fee.”
Chloe stood near the Sub-Zero refrigerator, sipping champagne from a crystal flute. She wore an off-the-shoulder gold cocktail dress, her blonde hair styled into soft, expensive waves.
“Mom, calm down,” Chloe said, checking her reflection in the dark glass of the microwave. “Marcus said Henderson from Ridgemont is already here. He brought two senior vice presidents from the commercial lending desk. As long as Marcus gets them to sign off on the bridge facility tonight, everything is fine.”
Diane turned, her emerald drop earrings trembling against her neck. “And where is Marcus?”
“In Arthur’s old study,” Chloe said carelessly. “Reviewing the closing packet with Harrison Croft. Harrison said the signature page is ready. Marcus just needs to execute as managing director.”
Diane’s eyes narrowed, a shadow of anxiety crossing her face. “Elena didn’t come back last night. She took that disgusting military duffel and left her truck in the lower driveway.”
Chloe rolled her eyes so hard her diamond studs caught the recessed lighting. “Good riddance. Who cares? She’s probably sleeping at some cheap motel on Route 1. She’s completely uncultured, Mom. You heard her yesterday—acting like Dad’s business was any of her concern. She spent four years crawling through dirt in the Middle East while we maintained the family’s social standing here. Dad felt sorry for her because her real mother left her in an unheated trailer when she was three. That doesn’t make her an equal partner in a multi-million-dollar estate.”
“She should have signed the paper,” Diane said, her jaw tight. “If she had signed, we wouldn't have had to pay Harrison an emergency weekend retainer to draft the secondary indemnity clause. Now Marcus has to use his personal equity stake as additional collateral.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Chloe said, waving her champagne glass dismissively. “Once the Ridgemont money clears on Monday, Marcus buys the freight terminal in Richmond. In six months, we flip it to that German logistics conglomerate for twelve million. We’ll pay off the Great Falls mortgage, pay off the lake house, and Elena can go back to being an engineer for the state highway department where she belongs.”
The swinging door from the dining room pushed open, and Marcus Vance-Drake walked in.
He was thirty-eight, tall, with the groomed, athletic build of a man who played squash three times a week and spent forty dollars on pomade. His tuxedo was bespoke, midnight blue, with silk grosgrain lapels. But beneath his polished exterior, his pupils were slightly dilated, and there was a thin sheen of sweat along his hairline.
“Marcus,” Diane said, moving toward him. “Is it done?”
“Harrison has the papers on Arthur’s desk,” Marcus said, keeping his voice low so the kitchen staff couldn’t hear. “We have an issue with the title insurance rider.”
Diane froze. “What kind of issue?”
“Ridgemont’s legal department flagged an ownership variance on the property,” Marcus muttered, adjusting his cuff links with jerky, nervous motions. “They claim the title isn't listed under Arthur Sterling personally or the family trust. It came back under an LLC called Blackwood Oak.”
Diane frowned. “Blackwood Oak? Arthur had thirty shell companies. That was just one of his Delaware holding entities for tax write-offs.”
“Right,” Marcus said quickly. “That’s what I told Harrison. Harrison said since you are the surviving spouse and the presumed sole executor of the umbrella estate, you have full signing authority to execute an affidavit of beneficial ownership. Once you sign that, Ridgemont will accept the lake house as collateral for the four-million-dollar line.”
Diane let out a sigh of relief. “Then bring it out here. I’ll sign it now.”
“Not here,” Marcus said, looking around the bustling kitchen. “Harrison wants to do it in the study with Tyler Henderson and the Ridgemont VPs present. We do it formally right after the main toast. It looks professional. It shows the bank that the family is unified and decisive.”
“Unified,” Chloe laughed, taking another sip of champagne. “I’d love to see Elena’s face when she realizes we didn't even need her signature after all. She thought she was so clever, throwing Dad’s name in our faces.”
Diane straightened her shoulders, smoothing the front of her eight-thousand-dollar gown. The fear that had plagued her all morning dissipated, replaced by the familiar, venomous entitlement that had governed her life for fifty years.
“Arthur always coddled her,” Diane said softly, looking out the kitchen window toward the glowing terrace where eighty of northern Virginia’s wealthiest patrons were mingling. “He thought he could turn a stray dog into a Sterling. But breeding shows, Chloe. It always shows in the end.”
May you like
Diane turned toward the door. “Come. The senators have arrived. Let’s make sure everyone sees who runs this family.”
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