Chapter 3 - Table One
The Grand Biltmore Miami was drowning in flashbulbs, champagne flutes, and the sweet, heavy scent of gardenias. Three hundred of Florida’s most ruthless financiers, real estate moguls, and political heavyweights filled the ballroom, their laughter bouncing against forty-foot gilded ceilings.
At the epicenter of the room sat Table One.
Preston Vance leaned back against his velvet-backed chair, swirling a flute of vintage champagne. His tuxedo was bespoke Tom Ford, paid for on an American Express Centurion card that drew against Vance Logistics’ operating line. His cufflinks were platinum.
“I’m telling you, Mother,” Preston murmured, leaning toward Evelyn Vance, who sat beside him adorned in synthetic sapphires and rented diamonds, “this is the inflection point. You don’t get seated at Table One unless the Sterling board has already greenlit the buyout. Tonight, we enter the ten-figure club.”
Evelyn preened, adjusting her silver fox stole despite the air-conditioned chill. “It’s about time, darling. You’ve worked too hard to be dragged down by dead weight. That little plain-Jane thing at home would have humiliated you in front of people like Mayor Higgins and Governor Sterling’s delegates. Look at the women here! Chloe is an ornament worthy of your status.”
Chloe Davenport leaned into Preston’s shoulder, her hand resting flat against his lapel. Her backless ruby dress clung to her frame, her lips painted a glossy crimson.
“Darling,” Chloe cooed loud enough for the nearby table of hedge fund directors to overhear, “did you see how the society editors were taking notes when we walked in? They called us the new golden couple of Brickell.”
Preston smirked, pressing a kiss to Chloe’s temple. “They know which way the wind blows. By midnight, Clara won’t even be a memory. Tomorrow morning, my lawyers will serve her with the uncontested dissolution papers at the gate. I’ve allotted her two hundred thousand dollars and the lease on a modest townhouse in Tampa. That’s more generosity than she deserves.”
“Two hundred thousand?” Evelyn scoffed, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin. “Far too much, Preston! She came to you with nothing but a suitcase of second-hand clothes. She should be grateful you fed her for seven years. She’s an empty vessel.”
A white-gloved waiter materialized at Preston’s elbow, carrying an ice bucket cradling a bottle of 1996 Dom Pérignon.
“A gift for Mr. Preston Vance,” the waiter announced with theatrical precision. “Compliments of the Chairwoman of Sterling Crown Holdings.”
The entire table fell silent. Across the aisle, Victor Cross, the senior partner of Cross-Continental Bank, looked over with wide, calculating eyes.
“The Chairwoman?” Preston whispered, his chest expanding with intoxicating vanity. “She sent this directly?”
“Yes, sir,” the waiter replied smoothly. “She noted that tonight’s keynote address will fundamentally alter the future of Vance Logistics. She requested that you drink deeply before she takes the stage.”
Chloe clapped her manicured hands in delight. “Oh, Preston! She knows who you are! The elusive chairwoman actually sent you vintage champagne!”
Evelyn beamed, her chin lifted so high her wrinkled throat strained against her pearls. “What did I tell you? Success recognizes power. That woman knows my son is the future of Miami commercial logistics.”
Preston raised his glass to the nearby tables. “To vision!” he announced, raising his voice so the neighboring financiers could hear. “To partnerships that redefine the horizon!”
He threw his head back and drank. The champagne was cold, crisp, and notes of brioche and lemon peel washed over his tongue.
May you like
He had no idea that sixty floors above him, I was looking down at his smiling face through the closed-circuit ballroom feed, fastening a sixty-carat Colombian emerald necklace around my neck.
***
