Chapter 8 - The Rehearsal at the Grand Regency
The ballroom of the Grand Regency Hotel was decorated in gold, white, and crystal.
Three hundred of the city’s most elite citizens—senators, supreme court justices, industrial titans, and high-society matrons—filled the round tables, sipping fifty-year-old scotch and eating caviar.
At the head table, Richard Whitmore sat like a king, his silver hair impeccably slicked back, laughing heartily with the State Attorney General. Beside him, Tessa looked magnificent in an ivory lace cocktail dress, her eyes scanning the room with smug satisfaction.
I sat beside her, wearing a black tuxedo, smiling politely and raising my glass whenever a guest came by to offer congratulations.
Underneath my tailored jacket, my heart was beating with the steady, lethal rhythm of a war drum.
At 7:45 p.m., the grand double doors at the back of the ballroom opened.
A uniformed nanny walked in, carrying a bundle wrapped in a blue cashmere blanket. Beside her walked two armed private security guards wearing Whitmore crest pins on their blazers.
Tessa gasped dramatically, putting her hands over her heart.
“Oh, look, everyone!” she announced, her voice projected through the room’s sound system. “He’s finally here!”
The ballroom went quiet. Guests turned their heads, smiling and whispering as the nanny carried the baby up the center aisle toward the head table.
Richard Whitmore stood up, smoothing his tuxedo vest, adjusting his microphone.
“Friends, colleagues, distinguished guests,” Richard boomed, his voice carrying supreme authority. “Tonight is not just a celebration of the union between my daughter Tessa and Rowan Sterling. Tonight, we celebrate a new addition to our legacy.”
Tessa stepped down from the dais, reaching out her arms to take the baby from the nanny.
“Through our private philanthropic foundation in Switzerland,” Richard lied smoothly, “Tessa and Rowan have been granted early custody of a beautiful orphan boy. A child who will be officially adopted into the Whitmore-Sterling family tonight!”
Tessa held the baby up slightly, turning toward the cameras of the social press photographers who had been invited to cover the event. The baby whined softly, squirming against the light.
“Rowan, darling,” Tessa beamed, looking back at me with triumph in her eyes. “Come hold your son.”
I stood up slowly from my chair.
I adjusted my cuffs, stepped down from the head table, and walked to the center of the floor.
“He is a beautiful boy, Tessa,” I said, my voice quiet, but clear enough that the microphone on the podium picked it up.
“He’s perfect,” she whispered, offering the bundle to me.
I didn't take the baby. Instead, I turned toward the back of the ballroom.
“He has his mother’s nose,” I said loudly. “And his father’s eyes.”
Richard Whitmore frowned from the podium. “Rowan? What are you talking about? Take the boy.”
“I’m talking about Maren,” I declared, my voice echoing off the high crystal ceilings like thunder. “My wife.”
The room gasped. Tessa’s smile froze instantly.
“Rowan, have you lost your mind?” Richard snapped, stepping down from the stage. “Maren is an adulterous ex-wife who was discarded a year ago! Security, clear the press—”
“Security isn't going to help you tonight, Richard,” I said coldly.
I snapped my fingers.
The heavy grand doors of the ballroom were slammed open.
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Twenty federal agents in black tactical gear bearing FBI and U.S. MARSHALS insignia flooded into the room, followed by state troopers. Leading them were Marcus Thorne and the Assistant United States Attorney.
“Nobody move!” the lead agent shouted through a bullhorn. “This venue is now a federal crime scene under the authority of the Department of Justice!”
