Chapter 4 - The Gala Ambush
The Great Hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art was a sea of black ties, couture silk, and champagne flutes under the towering stone arches of Egyptian antiquity.
Flashbulbs popped in blinding rhythms along the red carpet lining the grand limestone steps outside. Inside, three hundred of the most powerful people in American finance, real estate, and society mingled beneath chandeliers draped in white orchids.
At eight-thirty, Grant Caldwell made his grand entrance.
He looked every inch the conquering prince of New York real estate. His tuxedo was midnight blue velvet by Tom Ford, his smile radiant, his posture commanding. On his arm was Sloane Mercer, wearing a plunging emerald gown that had undoubtedly been charged to the Caldwell Hart entertainment account. In her swept-back hair, gleaming like a trophy under the halogen lights, was my mother’s pearl orchid pin.
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Reporters from Bloomberg and the New York Post clustered around them near the bottom of the grand staircase.
"Mr. Caldwell!
