Chapter 6 - The Uninvited Guests
The crystal chandelier in the grand dining room vibrated with the low murmur of laughter and clinking champagne flutes. Grant was mid-sentence, regaling three regional vice presidents with a fabricated tale about how he personally spearheaded the architectural layout of the villa, when the heavy oak front doors swung open with a resounding bang.
No one knocked.
A sharp, collective hush fell over the room as heavy footsteps echoed across the imported Italian marble of the foyer.
Grant’s smile faltered, his champagne glass freezing halfway to his mouth. My father stiffened in his wingback chair, his whiskey glass trembling slightly against his knuckles.
“Excuse me,” Grant snapped, stepping away from his guests and marching into the foyer, his tone dripping with indignant authority. “This is a private corporate reception. If you’re catering staff or delivery, use the service entrance around—wait. Who are you?”
He stopped dead in his tracks.
Standing in the center of the foyer weren't delivery drivers. Two towering federal marshals in dark tactical windbreakers flanked Marcus Vance, who carried a thick leather briefcase like an executioner’s axe. And right behind them, stepping through the doorway with calm, measured precision, was me.
I wore my Navy dress uniform, the gold stripes on my sleeves gleaming sharply beneath the warm lights of the chandelier.
May you like
Color drained completely from Grant’s face. His mouth opened and closed like a stranded fish. “You... what are you doing here? How did you get past the security gates?”
“Good evening, Grant,” I said, my voice cutting through the silent room with absolute clarity. “Nice party. Too bad it’s about to get raided.”
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