Chapter 12: The Gala Trap
526 Words
The invitation said Discretion.
But when Rhea stepped out onto the circular driveway of the Elan Legacy Club, everything screamed surveillance.
Cameras hidden in floral arrangements. Facial scan systems disguised as modern sculpture. Staff in tailored uniforms who didn’t blink, didn’t smile—who probably didn’t need names.
She wore black silk.
Minimalist. Sleek. A razor-line neckline.
The kind of dress that didn’t apologize.
The kind that told men like Dreven Sarto:
I am not a pawn. I’m a blade.
Elle had begged to come.
“If you’re walking into a den of wolves,” she’d said, “at least bring someone who knows how to bite.”
But the guest list at the door was surgical.
Elle wasn’t on it.
Only Rhea was.
Of course.
Inside, the gala glowed with golden restraint.
Wealth didn’t speak here.
It whispered.
Men in bespoke suits. Women in diamond armor. Conversations woven in false laughter and encrypted subtext.
It wasn’t a party.
It was a battlefield lit by champagne.
She had taken ten steps when a voice slid into her ear—low, clipped, unmistakable.
“I expected red.”
Caspian.
She turned.
He was dressed in obsidian. Sharp lines. Cufflinks like silent weapons. His gaze unreadable. His presence undeniable.
“I don’t bleed on command,” she replied.
He didn’t smile. But something in his eyes softened. Or sharpened. She wasn’t sure which anymore.
“I wasn’t invited,” he murmured. “But the Board never turns away the house strategist.”
“You came for me?”
“I came to remind them what I keep.”
Dreven Sarto was waiting by the far window.
One hand held a glass. The other held the room.
He looked younger than she’d expected.
Controlled charm. Sharp features. Smile without soul.
He turned as they approached, offering two glasses and a nod.
“Miss Esquivel,” he said smoothly. “The infamous fixer.”
“Mr. Sarto,” she returned, tone level. “The infamous cleaner.”
Caspian didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.
Dreven gestured to a private lounge space—glass, velvet, silence.
“Come,” he said. “Let’s talk legacy.”
The conversation was elegant warfare.
Dreven spoke of succession. Of market choreography. Of how empires are defined not by scale, but by how well they bury their mistakes.
He praised her.
Her instincts. Her PR pivots. Her nerve.
Then, almost absently, he said:
“Your father once stood in this room. Right there, actually.”
Rhea didn’t blink.
“He was brilliant,” Dreven continued. “Too emotional, though. Legacy should never be personal.”
She leaned in, just enough.
“Neither should cleaning up after it.”
Their eyes locked.
Between them, Caspian shifted.
Barely.
But his hand moved—resting lightly on the edge of her chair.
Possessive.
Protective.
Both.
As the night waned and glasses emptied, a silent server approached.
A slim envelope. No name.
Inside: a Board document.
Decades old.
Two signatures.
Isidro Esquivel.
Dreven Sarto.
Status: Nullified. Breach. Terminated.
Rhea folded it with deliberate calm.
And smiled.
They weren’t hiding the past anymore.
They were daring her to expose it.
- Writer
