Chapter 12 - The Ghost at the Gala
Two weeks into my new role as Senior Director of Portfolio Management at Vanguard, my life was a whirlwind of mergers, acquisitions, and late nights. I had traded my old condo for a sleek, minimalist loft in Tribeca, complete with exposed brick and floor-to-ceiling windows. I had no contact with my parents, and Chloe’s name was effectively erased from my vocabulary. Yet, in the cutthroat world of New York finance, the past has a funny way of wearing an expensive tuxedo and showing up uninvited.
It was a Friday evening, and Vanguard was hosting its annual charity gala at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The Great Hall was breathtaking, bathed in amber light, echoing with the soft murmur of hedge fund managers, politicians, and socialites sipping champagne. I wore an emerald-green velvet gown that hugged my frame, the fabric draping elegantly over my back—a subtle testament to the scar I no longer bothered to hide.
"You're a hard woman to keep track of, Claire," a smooth voice murmured near my ear.
I turned to see Julian Vance, a senior partner at Vanguard and one of the few people in the firm whose intelligence rivaled Sterling's. He handed me a flute of sparkling water, his dark eyes crinkling with amusement. "Sterling is already talking about making you a partner by next fiscal year. You’re terrifyingly efficient."
"Efficiency is just survival with better branding, Julian," I replied, clinking my glass against his.
As we walked toward the inner gallery where a string quartet was playing Vivaldi, a commotion near the entrance caught my attention. Flashbulbs were popping, and a cluster of society reporters had crowded around a newly arrived couple. I wouldn't have given them a second glance if not for the high-pitched, affected laugh that cut through the classical music like fingernails on a chalkboard.
Chloe.
She was draped in a ridiculously voluminous white tulle dress that looked like a melted wedding cake crossed with a swan, her arm linked tightly through Tyler’s. Tyler looked thinner, his tailored tuxedo straining slightly around his waist, his eyes darting nervously around the room as if expecting process servers to drop from the ceiling. Trailing a few paces behind them were my mother and father. My mother looked exhausted beneath layers of makeup, her eyes hollow, while my father wore a forced, desperate smile that didn't reach his eyes.
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They had crashed Vanguard’s charity gala. Tyler’s family’s real estate firm was desperately trying to secure commercial backing after the disastrous fallout of their wedding-day financial collapse, and Vanguard was their last, bleeding hope.
I froze, my fingers tightening around the stem of my glass until the crystal threatened to snap.
