Chapter 5 - The Gala
Friday arrived under a canopy of dark, rain-swollen clouds that smothered the city in gray.
Marcus spent the afternoon perfecting his appearance. His tuxedo was Italian silk; his cufflinks were onyx set in white gold. In our bedroom, he stood in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting his bow tie with rhythmic, precise movements.
"The board is announcing my promotion to senior partner tonight," he said to my reflection as I sat on the edge of the bed, wearing an emerald maternity gown he had selected for me. "The regional director will be sitting at our table. You’ll laugh at his jokes, Nora. You’ll tell his wife how attentive I am. And you won't touch the wine, obviously."
"Obviously," I replied.
He walked over, kneeling before me so his eyes were level with mine. He reached out and smoothed a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His fingers were cool.
"You've been remarkably cooperative this week," he murmured, his gaze searching my face for the rebellion he had spent months trying to drown out of me. "It suits you. Motherhood is softening your stubbornness."
"I just want a quiet life, Marcus."
"That’s all I've ever tried to give you," he said softly, standing up and checking his gold watch. "The car will be here in twenty minutes. Don't be late."
He turned and descended the stairs to take a call from his firm’s managing partner.
The second the study door clicked shut below, my pulse surged. I didn't reach for a bag. A bag would show up on the front porch camera.
Instead, I slid off the bed, walked to the bathroom closet, and pulled a small plastic-wrapped bundle from beneath the floorboard under the linen hamper—a burner flip phone purchased with cash three months ago, activated with a prepaid SIM card, and a thumb drive containing mirror copies of the audio files Dr. Vance had received.
I slipped the small phone into the hidden pocket of my evening clutch.
The Pacific Commercial Gala was held at the Grand Hyatt downtown. The ballroom was an ocean of crystal chandeliers, clinking champagne flutes, and the low, collective hum of wealthy executives and civic leaders laughing at expensive jokes.
Marcus was in his element. He moved through the crowd like a monarch, his hand constantly resting on the small of my back, guiding my movements, dictating whom I spoke to and when I smiled.
"Marcus, congratulations on the expansion project!" a councilman boomed, shaking his hand. "And Nora! You look radiant. When are you due?"
"February," I said, offering the rehearsed, fragile smile. "Marcus has been incredible. He doesn't let me lift a finger."
"He's one of the good ones," the councilman’s wife chimed in, sighing. "They don't make them like him anymore."
At 8:45 PM, the master of ceremonies took the podium. The lights dimmed.
"Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we honor a man whose dedication to urban revitalization is matched only by his civic integrity..."
Marcus leaned down toward my ear. "Stay at the table. I’ll be back down after the acceptance speech."
"Good luck," I whispered.
He stepped toward the stage, greeted by a storm of polite applause. The spotlight tracked him as he mounted the stairs, tall, impeccably groomed, the portrait of modern success.
As soon as his back was turned to the room, I stood up from the table.
May you like
I didn't run. Running attracts attention. I walked with steady, deliberate steps toward the restroom corridor, bypassed the stalls, and slipped through the service exit beside the banquet kitchen.
***
