Chapter 2 - The Portal to the High Society
The search didn't take days; it took hours. When you have the kind of wealth the Montgomerys possess, your life is heavily documented, even if it’s heavily guarded. By Thursday night, Marcus had dropped a thick, unmarked Manila envelope onto my kitchen table while Chloe was sleeping.
Inside were photographs.
The first was a society page clipping from the New York Times. It showed Camila. She was standing at a gala for the Metropolitan Museum of Art, wearing an emerald-green silk gown that clung to her frame like liquid glass. Her hair was swept up, exposing her elegant collarbones, but her eyes—the same wild, emerald eyes I had fallen in love with in that rainy Seattle diner—looked dead. Her left shoulder was bare. And there, partially obscured by a masterfully applied layer of high-end concealer, was the faint, jagged outline of the broken compass.
"She’s lived in the penthouse on 5th Avenue since she returned from Seattle eight years ago," Marcus explained, pointing to a surveillance photo of a towering, pre-war limestone building overlooking Central Park. "Her father brought her back under what the papers called a 'medical sabbatical.' Three months later, she gave birth to triplets. The family statement claimed she had used a private donor overseas. No father was ever named. No birth certificate was made public."
"She was pregnant when she left me," I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow to the sternum.
Eight years ago, we had spent forty-eight hours in a cheap motel near the Puget Sound. We had talked about running away to Alaska, about building a cabin where the rain couldn't reach us. She had been terrified of her family, though she never used the name Montgomery. She had only spoken of "The Tower."
"How do I get in?" I asked, my fingers curling into fists against the edge of the table.
"You don't," Marcus said flatly. "The lobby has three armed security guards, biometrics for the elevators, and a direct line to the 19th Precinct. You walk in there looking like a grease monkey from Brooklyn, and you’ll be in a holding cell before you can say her name."
"I'm not letting them keep my daughters in a gilded cage, Marcus."
"Then you play smart," Marcus said, sliding a glossy black invitation card across the table. "Arthur Montgomery is hosting the annual Winter Solstice Foundation Gala at the Plaza Hotel tomorrow night. It’s a mask-mandatory charity event. Five thousand dollars a plate. I managed to clone a digital ticket from one of my corporate clients who had to back out."
I looked at the black card. The gold lettering read: The Montgomery Foundation: Navigating the Future.
"I don't have a tuxedo, Marcus."
"I do," Marcus said with a grim smile. "And it’s a mask event, Leo. Use it."
The next evening, I stood in front of the vanity mirror in my bathroom. The rental tux was a bit tight across the shoulders, but it hid the grease stained beneath my fingernails. I adjusted the black silk mask that covered the upper half of my face, leaving only my jaw and my eyes exposed.
Chloe came to the door, her eyes wide as she looked at me. "Daddy, you look like a prince."
May you like
I kneeled down, kissing her forehead. "I'm just going to find some answers, baby. Mrs. Higgins from next door is going to stay with you. I’ll be home before you wake up."
As I stepped out into the freezing New York night, the compass on my arm felt heavier than ever. I wasn't a prince. I was a man going to reclaim what had been stolen from him in the dark.
