Behind The Mask

Chapter 27: The Phantom and The Light

POV: Maxwell

The silence in the mansion had become a living, breathing monster.

It had been exactly twenty-one days since Fiona swept up the broken glass in her bedroom.

For three weeks, I had lived with a ghost. She never raised her voice neither did she ever asked for anything. When we passed each other in the long hallways, her eyes looked right through me as if I were entirely invisible.

Truth be told, the void of her presence was destroying me.

I was Maxwell Jordan. I negotiated billion-dollar mergers before breakfast. I commanded boardrooms filled with the most ruthless men on Wall Street. But sitting in my empty study, I was completely unraveled.

I could not sleep and I could not focus on the endless barrage of emails from my board of directors.

Camilla had tried to complain about the mansion's Wi-Fi connection earlier that afternoon. She had marched into my study, whining about her streaming services buffering and her inability to upload to her social media accounts, completely oblivious to the psychological war zone this house had become. I had nearly thrown a crystal decanter through the wall, screaming at her to get out of my sight. She had fled in tears, but even her dramatic sobbing brought me no satisfaction. It was just noise.

I poured myself a third glass of bourbon, staring blankly at the rain beating against the window.

The door of my study suddenly cracked open. Marcus stepped inside, his expression completely unreadable.

"I told you I did not want to be disturbed under any circumstances," I snapped viciously, bringing the glass to my lips.

"I apologize, Mr. Jordan," Marcus said, his deep voice cutting through the quiet room. "But you explicitly asked me to monitor the front gate security logs and notify you of any movement. Ambassador Caldwell just left the property."

I froze. The glass stopped inches from my mouth. "Left? Where the hell could she go to? Her personal accounts and credit cards are still frozen. I checked her dashboard an hour ago."

"She ordered an elite black car service, sir. It was paid in advance with an encrypted third-party corporate account," Marcus replied, looking down at his tablet. "She requested to be dropped off at the Pierre Hotel in Manhattan. The UN Global Relief Gala is being held there tonight."

I slammed my glass down onto the desk so hard the amber liquid sloshed over the rim, staining the blotter.

The UN Gala. It was the most exclusive high-stakes charity networking event of the year. I had received a premium invitation months ago but had instructed my assistant to decline it. After the disaster in Paris and the threats from my grandfather, I didn't want to smile for the cameras, while my marriage was bleeding on the floor. The last thing I wanted was to parade myself in front of the global press.

But Fiona was there.

"Get the car," I ordered, my voice dropping to a desperate growl. "Now."

Twenty minutes later, my armored SUV tore through the streets of the city and pulled up to the red carpet outside the Pierre Hotel. The flashing lights of the paparazzi completely blinded the street, but I didn't care. I didn't care about the reporters screaming my name and shoving microphones toward the vehicle.

I did not wait for my driver to jog around and open my door. I shoved the door open and marched straight past the velvet ropes.

"Sir, excuse me, your invitation...” a panicked security guard started, stepping into my path.

I did not even slow down. I grabbed the man by the lapel of his uniform and simply moved him out of my way.

"I am Maxwell Jordan. Do not touch me."

I left him stumbling backward and pushed my way forcefully through the golden doors and stepped into the grand ballroom.

It was a sea of expensive tuxedos, glittering diamonds, and champagne flutes. The room was packed with politicians, foreign dignitaries, and rival CEOs. It was my territory. My world.

I ignored all of them. My eyes desperately scanned the crowd, searching for her.

I expected to find her standing in a corner, looking exhausted. I fully expected to find her trying to beg the UN Secretary-General for her old job back. I needed her to look lost so I could step in, save her, and finally break the agonizing silence between us.

Then, the crowd shifted near the center of the room.

All the breath evacuated my lungs.

Fiona was standing near a crystal ice sculpture. She wasn't wearing a conservative, high-buttoned UN uniform. She was wearing a stunning, floor-length emerald green gown that perfectly hugged her curves and dipped low in the back. Her hair was swept up in an elegant style. She looked like absolute royalty. She looked completely breathtaking.

But her beauty was not what made my heart stop.

Standing right beside her, standing far too close to my wife, was a tall, broad-shouldered man. He was not wearing a custom designer tuxedo like the rest of the billionaires in the room. His suit was simple, a little rugged, and he looked like a man more comfortable in a war zone than a ballroom.

It was Gabriel Lawson.

I watched, entirely paralyzed, as Gabriel casually leaned down, closing the intimate distance between them, and whispered something directly into Fiona’s ear.

And then, it happened.

Fiona tipped her head back, and a bright, radiant laugh escaped her lips. It wasn't a polite chuckle. It was a deep, genuine, completely unrestrained laugh that seemed to echo beautifully over the dull roar of the crowd. Her eyes sparkled with pure joy. Her entire face lit up from inside out, glowing with a fierce, beautiful life that I hadn't seen in her since the very first year we were married.

I stood completely frozen near the entrance doors, oblivious to the people bumping into my shoulders. My hands balled into tight, shaking fists at my sides, my nails digging painfully into my palms until they nearly drew blood.

A sudden suffocating weight crashed down onto my chest, crushing the last remaining pieces of my arrogance.

She was not lost. She was not broken. And she was not waiting for me to save her.

She was completely, vibrantly happy. And the man making her smile was not me.