Chapter 3 - The Wolf in Designer Clothing
Friday night arrived with the blinding glitz and glamour of Seattle’s high-society elite.
The rooftop terrace of the Skyline Club was packed with wealthy executives, politicians, and socialites sipping champagne and laughing loudly. At the center of it all stood Nathan Caldwell, dressed in a custom midnight-blue tuxedo, holding a glass of vintage scotch while Lauren hung off his arm like a glittering trophy.
Tonight was supposed to be his ultimate triumph: celebrating the finalization of our divorce, the complete acquisition of my former home, and the massive corporate merger that supposedly cemented him as a titan of industry.
I arrived precisely at 9:00 PM.
I didn't sneak in through the service elevator. I didn't wear drab maternity clothes or cower in a corner.
Instead, I stepped out of a private elevator directly into the main ballroom, draped in a custom-tailored emerald silk gown designed by Valentino that gracefully accentuated my eight-month pregnancy. A diamond and emerald choker necklace—an heirloom pulled straight from the Vance family vault—sparkled brilliantly against my collarbone. Flanking me on either side were two towering, stone-faced private security directors in immaculate suits.
The ambient chatter of the ballroom slowly died down. Heads turned. Whispers rippled through the crowd like static electricity.
Nathan froze mid-sentence, his scotch glass stopping halfway to his mouth. His jaw went slack, his eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated terror as he stared at me. He looked as though he had just seen a ghost risen from a watery grave.
"O-Olivia?" Nathan stammered, dropping his glass. It shattered against the Italian marble floor, the sharp sound cutting through the stunned silence of the room. "How... how are you here? Security! How did a beggar like her get past the lobby?"
Before the guards could react, a third man stepped out of the private elevator behind me.
Arthur Vance walked forward with slow, terrifying grace, leaning slightly on an ivory-handled cane, his imposing presence commanding absolute submission from everyone in the room.
The CEO of Caldwell Enterprises—Nathan’s primary financial partner—turned pale as paper, dropping his champagne flute. "A-Arthur Vance? Sir, I didn't know you were attending—"
"I wasn't attending your party, Marcus," Arthur interrupted, his deep, resonant voice echoing off the glass walls. "I was escorting my granddaughter to her proper place."
The ballroom plunged into a suffocating, dead silence. You could hear the distant hum of city traffic far below.
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Lauren clutched Nathan’s arm, her face twisting in confusion and mounting panic. "Nate... what is he talking about? Who is that old man?"
Nathan didn't answer. He couldn't. His face had turned the color of curdled milk, his eyes darting frantically between my composed expression and the billionaire patriarch standing beside me.
