Chapter 7 - The Gathering of the Two Hundred
The morning of the wedding arrived with a brilliant, cruel blue sky that made the gold leaf on the ballroom windows of the Drake Hotel shine like fresh coin.
Two hundred guests—the elite of Chicago’s industrial, political, and social circles—filled the grand hall. The air was thick with the scent of five thousand white orchids, expensive French perfume, and the low, aristocratic hum of two hundred people who had come to watch a young king marry his perfect queen.
Camille Foster sat in the bridal suite on the fourth floor, looking into the three-way mirror. Her dress was a masterpiece of French lace and seed pearls, its train stretching six feet across the thick carpet. Her copper hair was pinned into a perfect crown, her face smooth, serene, and completely victorious.
Her mother, Eleanor, was weeping softly into a lace handkerchief near the champagne cart. “You look like an angel, Camille. A perfect angel. Your father would be so proud.”
“Father is downstairs with the Vance attorneys, Mother,” Camille said, her voice cool and flat as she adjusted the pearl earring on her left ear. “Tell him to make sure the notary from the Cook County clerk’s office stays near the main table. The moment the vows are finished, the signature on the secondary registry needs to be stamped within five minutes.”
“Of course, darling,” Eleanor whispered, wiping her eyes. “Everything is ready. Ethan’s sister arrived from New York an hour ago. She looked very pale. She wouldn't even drink the mimosas we sent to her room.”
“She’s nervous because she knows her family’s reign is coming to an end,” Camille said, her mouth forming that cold, beautiful line that Sophia Delgado had seen in the dark corridor eleven days earlier.
Downstairs, the ballroom doors opened.
The guests took their seats along the long aisle, which had been covered in a thick carpet of white velvet. On the groom’s side sat the executive board of Whitmore Global, all twelve of them wearing identical black suits and unreadable faces. On the bride’s side sat the remnants of the Vance Logistics syndicate—old men with thick necks and expensive watches who hadn't been seen in a public ballroom in ten years.
In the front row, sitting on a small velvet cushion beside her mother, sat three-year-old Sophia Delgado. She was wearing a small pink dress with a white bow, her curls pinned back, her little hand holding a small plastic cup of apple juice.
She looked up at the grand altar, where Ethan Whitmore stood alone beneath the massive floral arch. He was wearing a classic black tuxedo, his hands clasped behind his back, his face completely still, looking less like a groom and more like a judge waiting for the court to assemble.
The string quartet began to play the first notes of the bridal march.
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The double doors at the back of the hall swung wide.
Camille Foster stepped into the room, her train rustling against the white velvet, her white veil catching the light like a cloud as she began her long, triumphant walk toward the man she had spent two years preparing to destroy.
