17: Ghost Of The Foundation
1238 Words
The night of the Hollingsworth Foundation gala was a symphony of glitter and deceit.
The ballroom inside the Grand Elysium Hotel glowed like a cathedral of luxury — chandeliers dripping with crystal, violins whispering through the air, and every guest dressed in sin disguised as sophistication. The city’s elite had gathered to celebrate “a decade of humanitarian work,” but under the chandeliers and champagne, there was rot.
Amara entered on Sebastian’s arm, radiant and composed, though her heartbeat thrummed like war drums beneath her calm. She wore a black silk gown — simple, elegant — chosen because Veronica had worn the same design in a photograph years ago.
If Celeste recognized the echo, so much the better.
Sebastian, in a charcoal tuxedo, looked every inch the billionaire husband — aloof, unreadable, dangerous. But behind the calm mask, his mind was a battlefield. Every second of that evening was a risk.
They had one goal: find Veronica’s hidden archive before Celeste discovered their move.
⸻
The plan was simple — in theory.
Celine had secured their invitations and hacked into the foundation’s internal network. The archives, according to Sebastian’s information, were stored in a private vault beneath the gala hall, accessible through the service corridor leading to the executive offices.
If Veronica’s files were truly buried there, tonight was their only chance to retrieve them.
Sebastian’s voice was low as they entered the ballroom. “We stick to the routine. Smile. Dance. Blend in until the security shift at nine.”
Amara nodded. “And if she approaches?”
“Be polite. Play the role.”
“I’ve gotten good at that,” she murmured.
He looked at her, regret flickering across his eyes. “I know.”
⸻
Celeste Hollingsworth glided through the crowd like royalty, wrapped in silver silk and diamonds that caught every drop of light. When she saw them, her smile bloomed — poised, poisonous.
“My favorite couple,” she purred, taking Amara’s hand. “You look divine, darling. Black suits you. It whispers mystery.”
“Or mourning,” Amara said lightly.
Celeste’s eyes glinted. “Oh, how poetic.”
They kissed cheeks, the picture of civility. To the watching crowd, it was charm. But beneath every word was a loaded gun.
“I trust you enjoyed our tea,” Celeste said. “I was worried I might’ve been too candid.”
“Candid conversations are refreshing,” Amara replied. “They make me rethink who the angels really are.”
Celeste’s smile didn’t falter, but her gaze sharpened. “Careful, dear. Some angels have claws.”
Sebastian stepped in smoothly. “And some devils prefer velvet gloves.”
Celeste laughed — a sound like ice breaking. “Oh, Sebastian. Still the poet of the damned. I do miss your charm at board meetings.”
He tilted his glass. “And I miss your sincerity.”
It was verbal chess, and every move was calculated. Celeste’s expression betrayed nothing, but Amara could feel it — the tension, the recognition that tonight wasn’t just celebration. It was battle.
⸻
At nine, Sebastian excused himself to “take a call.” Amara remained, smiling, chatting, pretending to be another socialite lost in gossip and champagne. Inside, she counted every second.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Then her phone vibrated once — their signal.
She slipped away from the dance floor, down the side corridor lined with portraits of benefactors. The music faded behind her, replaced by the low hum of hidden machinery.
Sebastian waited by the service elevator, a small access card in hand. “Celine’s bypassed the system,” he whispered. “We’ve got ten minutes before the backup resets.”
They entered the elevator, the doors closing silently. As it descended, the air grew colder, heavier — the kind of cold that lived where truth was buried.
When the doors opened, they stepped into a dim underground hall lined with file cabinets, servers, and sealed crates marked with medical inventory codes. The foundation’s heart — and its graveyard.
Amara’s flashlight swept across the room until it caught something — a glass cabinet bearing Veronica’s name on a bronze plaque: “In Memory of Veronica Cruz — Patron of Hope.”
Sebastian’s breath caught. “She left her name here,” he murmured.
Amara knelt, examining the base. “This panel’s newer than the rest.” She pressed along the seams — and one section gave way. Inside, a hidden compartment gleamed under the light.
She reached in and pulled out a small black box.
Her fingers shook as she opened it.
Inside were data drives wrapped in old velvet, sealed with wax stamped “VC.” A note lay on top, written in Veronica’s looping hand:
If you are reading this, you are either my enemy or my hope. The truth is a living thing — it grows, it infects, it survives. Use it well, or it will consume you.
Amara stared at the note, her chest tight. “She knew this would happen.”
Sebastian took the drive gently. “This is everything — the network, the accounts, the evidence. With this, Eduardo falls.”
“And Celeste,” Amara said.
Before he could reply, a sharp click echoed through the corridor.
They froze.
A voice floated out of the darkness — smooth, cultured, deadly.
“I must say, Veronica would be proud of your curiosity,” Celeste said, stepping into the light with two guards at her side. Her silver gown shimmered like a blade. “But you should’ve known better than to come uninvited.”
Sebastian’s hand slid toward his pocket. “How did you—”
“Please.” She smiled faintly. “Did you really think I’d let anyone near my vault without knowing? You’ve become predictable, Sebastian. Grief makes men dull.”
Amara stepped forward, her eyes blazing. “You killed her.”
Celeste’s expression didn’t change. “Oh, no. I simply cleaned up after the man who did.”
“You helped bury her truth.”
“I preserved it,” Celeste said softly. “Because even monsters need legacies.”
Sebastian’s voice was ice. “Then you’ll die with it.”
Celeste’s laughter echoed off the walls. “Oh, darling, you still think death frightens me. It doesn’t. But exposure does — and I’ve made sure that if anything happens to me tonight, the files on that drive go public… including yours.”
Amara’s heart stopped. “Ours?”
Celeste’s gaze turned pitying. “Did Sebastian not tell you, dear? The ledgers have his signature too. He wasn’t just cleaning up Eduardo’s mess — he approved the first transfer. He made it possible.”
Amara’s breath faltered. “That’s not true.”
Celeste smiled. “Then open the drive, and see for yourself.”
Sebastian’s jaw clenched, eyes cold and wounded. “You forged them.”
“Maybe,” Celeste said, turning to leave. “Or maybe your husband isn’t the savior you think.”
Her heels clicked away, echoing like gunshots. The guards followed. The vault door slammed behind them, locking automatically.
Amara stood still, staring at the drive in her hand — the proof, the weapon, the curse.
Sebastian spoke softly. “Amara, listen—”
She turned toward him, eyes blazing with betrayal and fear. “Tell me it’s a lie.”
He didn’t answer.
The silence was louder than any confession.
- Writer
