Chapter 10 - The Serpent's Gala
The storm that had been brewing over the Atlantic hit Manhattan at midnight on Saturday, burying the city beneath six inches of wet, heavy slush that turned the avenues into gray rivers of grease and brine.
Inside the penthouse suite of the Hart Tower on Fifth Avenue, the fire in the double-sided limestone hearth burned with a soft, gas-fed hiss.
Vanessa Hart sat on a low, white leather sofa, her long legs curled beneath her, an unopened glass of green juice resting on the glass table. She was not wearing her silver gala gown; she was wearing a gray cashmere tracksuit that cost more than Maria Vance earned in three months of industrial cleaning.
Her face was pale, stripped of makeup, her eyes red-rimmed from forty-eight hours of watching her follower count fluctuate like a dying pulse.
On the sixty-inch screen mounted above the hearth, the latest social media metrics were being displayed via an encrypted corporate portal:
*NEGATIVE SENTIMENT: 78.4%*
*TOP TRENDING TAGS: #BoycottHartCosmetics, #TheRealCinderella, #PayTheMaid.*
Standing by the floor-to-ceiling glass wall, looking out over the snow-blind expanse of Central Park, was her father.
Richard Hart was sixty-four years old, with the leathery, wind-burned skin of a man who spent his winters in Palm Beach and his summers racing yachts off Newport. He held an unlit cigar between two fingers that were adorned with a single, massive gold signet ring bearing his family’s crest—a falcon clutching an broken spear.
Julian Ross sat in a leather armchair nearby, his briefcase open on the carpet, his laptop screen casting a pale, blue glow over his sharp, predatory features.
"Callahan’s order won't hold," Ross said, his voice flat, analytical, completely devoid of emotion. "Solis filed an emergency motion to vacate at four o'clock. She discovered the trustee loophole in the ninety-four charter. If we go before the appellate division on Monday, Justice Gittleson will dissolve the freeze in five minutes. He despises your family, Richard. His brother was on the board of the transit authority when you took over the rail contracts."
Richard Hart did not turn around. "What is the liability?"
"The million is gone," Ross said. "Midtown Trust will have to release the funds by noon. But the real problem is the countersuit. Solis is demanding five million for intentional infliction of emotional distress, plus civil rights violations under the Fair Housing Act for the private security we put outside the tenement."
Vanessa sat forward, her hands clenching into the cashmere of her sleeves. "Pay them! Daddy, just pay the little bitch and make it go away! The cosmetics launch is in three weeks! Bloomingdale’s just put a hold on the window displays! They said they won't put my face on the Fifth Avenue entrance while this... this *circus* is trending!"
Richard Hart turned around slowly.
His gaze did not land on Ross. It landed on his daughter. The look was so cold, so heavy with an old, aristocratic contempt that Vanessa involuntarily shrank back against the cushions.
"You stupid girl," Richard said. His voice was very quiet, barely louder than the snow hitting the triple-paned glass behind him.
"Daddy—"
"A million dollars," Richard said. "You threw a certified check on a cabaret floor because you couldn't stand the fact that an eight-year-old child was prettier than you under the lights."
"She wasn't prettier!" Vanessa’s voice rose to a shrill, hysterical shriek. "She was a maid’s kid! She was standing there in dirty shoes looking at me like I didn't belong on that stage!"
"And now she owns you," Richard said. He walked across the white silk rug, his heavy, custom-made oxfords making no sound. "The board had a special meeting at noon, Vanessa. They are considering removing you as the face of the foundation. They are talking about replacing you with an Olympic gymnast from Atlanta."
Vanessa’s breath caught in her throat. Her face went gray. "They can't do that. It’s my foundation. My name is on the building."
"The building belongs to the bank, Vanessa," Richard said. "Everything belongs to the bank until the public buys the stock. And right now, the public thinks you are a spoiled, vicious bully who steals money from children."
He looked down at Julian Ross. "What are our options?"
Ross closed his laptop halfway. "We cannot win this in a courtroom, Richard. Not before the IPO. Solis will drag it through discovery for six months. She’ll depose Vanessa under oath about her performance training, her foundation expenses, the fact that she hasn't taken a dance class since she was twelve."
"Then we change the venue," Richard said.
Ross tilted his head. "Explain."
Richard walked to the low glass table, picked up the remote control, and switched the television feed from the corporate portal to a live promo running on the National Arts Network.
On the screen, a glittering title card was revolving:
*THE METROPOLITAN WINTER INVITATIONAL: THE SEARCH FOR AMERICA’S PRODIGY.*
*LIVE FROM LINCOLN CENTER — DECEMBER 1.*
"The Invitational is our event," Richard said, a cold, terrible smile touching the corners of his thin lips. "The foundation funds sixty percent of the production budget. The broadcast rights belong to Hart Global. We have three international judges: the artistic director of the Paris Opera, the head of the Royal Ballet School, and..."
He paused, looking down at his daughter.
"And who, Daddy?" Vanessa whispered.
"Victor Vance," Richard said.
The room became utterly still.
Julian Ross’s eyes widened slightly behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. "Victor? He hasn't set foot in the United States since the scandal at the State Theater twenty years ago."
"He lives in Geneva," Richard said. "On a pension paid entirely by one of my shell companies in Liechtenstein. He owes me his life, his reputation, and his house on Lake Constance."
He turned back to the window, watching the snow fall over the park.
"We don't try to silence the girl," Richard said. "We invite her. We issue a formal, public challenge on national television tomorrow morning. We offer her a full, four-year scholarship to the Royal Ballet School in London, a two-million-dollar trust fund, and the absolute dismissal of all claims against her mother."
"And what do we demand in return?" Ross asked.
"She has to dance," Richard said. "On that stage. In front of three million viewers. One routine. Judged under international competitive rules. Against Vanessa."
Vanessa gasped. "Against me? Daddy, I can't outdance her! You saw what she did at the ballroom!"
Richard looked at his daughter with eyes that were entirely dead.
May you like
"You won't have to outdance her, Vanessa," Richard said softly. "Because by the time she steps onto that stage at Lincoln Center, Victor Vance will be sitting in the center of the judges' table. And he will ensure that the little stray from the East River never puts on a pair of dance shoes again."
Outside the glass, the blizzard howled through the steel canyons of the city, erasing the streets, the cars, and the lights below until there was nothing left but the white, silent cold.
