Chapter 2
The heavy mahogany doors of the ballroom didn't just open. They shattered inward, the brass handles striking the plaster walls with a sound like a gunshot.
The string quartet stopped playing instantly.
Meredith stayed on the floor, her hand pressed to her stinging cheek, as the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
August Vantress stood in the doorway.
He wore a tailored charcoal suit that emphasized the broad, rigid line of his shoulders. His dark hair was slightly damp from the Chicago rain, and his eyes—a cold, terrifying shade of steel—swept the room with the predatory focus of a man ready to burn a city to ash. Behind him stood six men in black overcoats, perfectly still, waiting for a single command.
August didn't yell. He didn't have to.
He walked slowly across the polished floor, his leather shoes clicking rhythmically in the absolute, suffocating silence of the ballroom. The wealthy guests, the politicians, and the foundation board members parted for him like water. Nobody dared to breathe.
He stopped in front of Ridge Howerin’s table.
August didn't look at Howerin. He looked down at Meredith.
His gaze traced the red mark blooming across her cheek. A muscle feathered in his jaw, the only outward sign of the catastrophic violence held tightly in check. He knelt slowly, heedless of the spilled red wine soaking into his expensive trousers.
“Are you hurt, Meredith?” August asked. His voice was a low, rough whisper meant only for her.
“I’m fine,” she breathed, her hands shaking as she pulled the faded peppermint tin from her apron. Her fingers fumbled with the lid. The plain silver wedding band slipped out, rolling onto the wine-stained floor.
August caught it. He picked up the silver band, wiped it clean with his thumb, and gently slid it onto her left ring finger. The metal felt heavy and permanent.
Then, August stood up.
He finally turned his attention to Ridge Howerin.
Howerin had gone completely pale, but he forced a mocking, arrogant smile. “August. I didn't realize you’d be joining us. Your wife was just—”
August moved so fast the human eye could barely track it.
He grabbed Howerin by the throat, lifting the older man entirely out of his chair, and slammed him backward onto the center of the dining table. Crystal glasses shattered. Silverware clattered to the floor. Howerin gasped, his hands clawing uselessly at August’s iron grip.
“I asked a question,” August said, his voice echoing over the terrified gasps of the guests. “Who put his hands on my wife?”
“It was a misunderstanding,” Howerin choked out, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple. “She was eavesdropping. She’s a liability, August! She was listening to council business!”
“She is my wife,” August growled, leaning closer until their faces were inches apart. “Her business is my business. Her enemies are my enemies. And you just signed your own death warrant.”
“You can't touch me,” Howerin wheezed, a frantic, desperate gleam in his eyes. “You need my vote. Odessa Vane is stepping down. If you kill me, the council fractures, and your father’s archival vault remains locked forever.”
August didn't flinch. “I don't care about the vault. I care about the hand that struck my wife.”
He tightened his grip. Howerin’s eyes bulged.
“August, stop.” Meredith’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the red haze of his rage instantly.
August froze. He looked back at her, his chest heaving. She placed a gentle, steadying hand on his arm.
“He’s not worth it,” Meredith said softly. “I just want to go see Lily. Please.”
The mention of her nine-year-old sister grounded him. August exhaled a sharp breath and released Howerin, letting the man collapse coughing into the ruined table setting.
“You’re a dead man walking, Ridge,” August promised coldly.
He turned, wrapping a protective arm around Meredith’s waist, and guided her toward the doors. But as they reached the threshold, Howerin laughed—a wet, ugly sound that sent a spike of pure terror down Meredith’s spine.
“Go see Lily, then,” Howerin gasped from the table. “But you might want to hurry. Security at Mercy Northside is so incredibly lax these days.”
August’s entire body went rigid. He spun around, pulling his weapon from his shoulder holster in one fluid motion, but a dozen of Howerin’s hidden loyalists suddenly stood up from the surrounding tables, drawing their own weapons.
“Stand down!” August roared to his men, shielding Meredith behind him. A shootout in a crowded ballroom would be a bloodbath.
“I didn't act alone, Meredith,” Howerin sneered, dabbing a napkin to his bleeding lip. He reached into his tuxedo jacket and tossed a glossy photograph across the room. It landed face-up at Meredith’s feet.
August kept his gun trained on Howerin while Meredith slowly bent down to retrieve the picture.
May you like
She stared at the image, her blood running completely cold. The breath vanished from her lungs.
It was a photograph of a woman sitting in a diner, accepting a thick manila envelope stuffed with cash from one of Howerin’s known associates.
