Chapter 2 - The Whispers of Chicago
Before Audrey could stop him, Micah slid his hand out of hers and turned toward the center aisle. He didn't rush. He walked with a deliberate, slow stride that forced the surrounding tables to turn their heads.
Audrey felt her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She wanted to reach out, to grab the back of his navy coat and pull him into her lap, to shield him from the cameras, from the bloggers, from the board members who were already pulling out their phones beneath the white tablecloths. But her limbs felt leaden.
Sierra Vaughn was whispering something into Brett’s ear, a light, triumphant laughter rippling off her lips. Brett leaned down, smiling, before his gaze drifted across the room toward Table One.
That was when his smile faltered.
He saw Micah stepping into the main path. And right behind Micah, he saw Audrey standing up.
Audrey didn't remember standing, but suddenly she was on her feet. Her hand rested on the edge of the mahogany table to steady herself. Her black satin dress fell in clean, sharp folds around her. She refused to look down. She refused to lower her head.
"Brett," a voice muttered from Table Three. It was Arthur Vance, the lead investor from the New York firm that was slated to sign a fifteen-million-dollar expansion deal with Holloway House on Monday morning. Arthur was leaning back, his thick gray eyebrows drawn together in deep distaste, his sharp eyes moving from Sierra’s red dress to the gold brooch, and finally to Audrey. "What is this?"
Brett’s jaw tightened. The media training he had undergone for television appearances kicked in instantly. He smoothed his tie with his free hand, gave Sierra a gentle, subtle nudge backward, and took two quick steps toward his son.
"Micah," Brett said, his voice lowering into that smooth, rich baritone that had charmed food critics across the country for a decade. "Hey, buddy. You're supposed to be sitting with your mother until the presentation starts. Go back to the table."
Micah stopped three feet away from his father. He didn't look at Sierra. He didn't look at the photographers whose lenses were quietly shifting direction. He looked straight into Brett’s eyes.
"You took it," Micah said. The boy’s voice wasn't loud, but in the tense, dead silence of the ballroom, it carried across five tables.
"Micah, not now," Brett hissed under his breath, his smile freezing into a tense mask. He reached out to place a hand on Micah’s shoulder. "We have guests. Mr. Vance is watching. The press is here. We’ll talk about whatever is bothering you in the car."
"You told Mom you took Great-Grandma Opal’s brooch to the jeweler to fix the clasp," Micah said, his voice crisp, loud, and chillingly clear. He pointed a slender finger straight at Sierra’s chest. "Why is she wearing it?"
A collective, sharp intake of breath echoed through the room.
Sierra’s face flushed bright pink. Her hand instinctively flew up to cover the gold wheat pin, her fingernails clawing at the red fabric. She shot a desperate glance at Brett. "Brett... what is he talking about? You said this was a vintage piece from an estate auction in Paris..."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Brett’s eyes darted around the room. He saw Arthur Vance cross his arms. He saw the local news anchor from Channel 5 lower her drink, her eyes wide with shock. He saw the whispers exploding like wildfire across the back tables where his head chefs and kitchen managers were sitting.
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"Micah, that's enough," Brett said, his tone turning dark, authority lacing his words. "You are confusing things. Lower your voice and go back to your mother right now."
"I'm not confused," Micah replied. He took one step closer, stepping directly between Brett and the stage. "You stole from Mom to buy her a present. Just like you took Mom’s recipes and put your name on the cover of the book."
