Chapter 26 - The Soho Rooftop
The glass-walled penthouse venue in Soho hummed with the sophisticated chatter of literary agents, journalists, and publishing executives. Strings of warm fairy lights arched across the open-air terrace, casting a golden glow over the sleek cocktail tables and the towering displays of my new book, *The Ledger of Self*, stacked neatly on velvet-draped pedestals.
I stood near the far corner of the terrace, wearing a midnight-blue structured blazer dress that cut a sharp, uncompromising silhouette against the evening sky. My hair was pulled back into a sleek, severe ponytail, and my expression was entirely serene. Beside me, Daniel looked immaculate in a tailored charcoal suit, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back, offering a steady, grounding anchor of warmth amidst the high-society electricity of the room.
"Everything is in place," Daniel murmured, leaning down so his lips brushed my ear. "Security at the ground-floor elevators has our specific photo blacklist. If Arthur or Chloe try to step foot in the lobby, they won't even make it past the turnstiles."
"Good," I replied, taking a slow sip of sparkling water from the crystal flute in my hand. "Because I have a feeling they aren't planning to come in through the front doors."
True to my intuition, the chaotic disruption didn't happen in the lobby.
It happened precisely at 8:15 PM, right as my publisher stepped up to the central microphone to introduce me to the crowd.
The heavy glass doors leading from the interior lounge out onto the rooftop terrace suddenly burst open with a loud, theatrical crash. A chorus of gasps rippled through the assembled guests as three figures marched uninvited onto the terrace, flanked by a cameraman holding a bulky shoulder-mounted rig with a glowing red tally light.
It was Chloe. She looked haggard, her hair dyed a desperate shade of platinum blonde, pushing an empty stroller in front of her as a prop for maximum emotional manipulation. Right behind her marched my mother, her face twisted into a mask of righteous indignation, wearing a vintage Chanel suit that looked like it hadn't been dry-cleaned in months. And trailing slightly behind them, holding a bulky manila envelope aloft like a holy relic, was Arthur, his face flushed with desperate, alcoholic bravado.
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"Stop this launch!" Arthur bellowed, his voice booming across the rooftop terrace and cutting off my publisher mid-sentence. "Stop publishing this fraudulent garbage! This woman—this thief—is living on stolen assets!"
The room fell into an absolute, stunned silence. Dozens of literary elites, journalists, and influencers turned in unison, their eyes widening in shock as they recognized the reality-TV-level drama unfolding before their eyes. Camera flashes instantly illuminated the terrace, and the cameraman accompanying Arthur zoomed in aggressively on my face.
