Chapter 4 - THE INHERITANCE OF FIRE
The after-party in the Palm Court was a swirling vortex of flash photography, champagne corks, and desperate socialites trying to catch a single glance from the woman they had once ignored.
Claire stood near the towering ficus trees, a glass of sparkling water in her hand, listening to the French ambassador praise her autumn line.
“You slaughtered them tonight, my dear,” Margaret Whitaker said, walking up beside her with the steady tap-tap of her cane. The old matriarch wore a severe black velvet jacket, her silver hair coiled into a tight bun. She looked over at Grant, who was standing alone near the bar, looking like a man attending his own funeral.
“I didn't slaughter anyone, Margaret,” Claire said smoothly, watching Leo and Maya chase each other around a marble pillar while June quietly examined a crystal ashtray with intense scientific curiosity. “I simply built a better house.”
Margaret grunted, a sound of profound satisfaction. “My son has been drinking scotch since nine o'clock. He tried to approach the children. I told him if he came within ten feet of my grandchildren, I’d remove him from the family trust and leave our entire Newport estate to a stray cat rescue.”
Claire laughed, a warm, genuine sound. “You wouldn't.”
“Try me,” Margaret snorted, tapping her cane. “The Whitaker name was dying of dry rot before you came along, Claire. Grant is a footnote. You are the dynasty.”
Across the room, Brooke Hensley tried to push her way past the security rope toward Claire, her face twisted in desperate rage. “Claire! We need to talk! You can't just—this isn't fair!”
Before Brooke could take another step, two towering security guards in bespoke tuxedos stepped directly into her path, crossing their arms with impassive expressions.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the lead guard said smoothly. “This is a private event for people who actually belong in the room.”
Brooke flushed crimson, turning around and fleeing through the revolving doors into the cold New York night, her silver dress flashing once before disappearing into the dark.
Claire didn't even bother watching her leave. She turned her attention back to her children.
Leo ran up to her, tugging on the gold hem of her gown. “Mommy, can we go home to Brooklyn now? The flashing lights are hurting my eyes.”
Claire smiled, kneeling down to pick him up, resting his small head against her shoulder. She looked up and saw Grant standing across the crowded room, his eyes brimming with unhedged, pathetic desperation. He took one step forward, raising a trembling hand as if to beg for a word, an inch, a scrap of forgiveness.
Claire didn't scowl. She didn't glare.
May you like
She simply looked straight through him, as if he were made of transparent glass, and turned her back.
She took June’s hand, called to Maya, and walked out of The Plaza Hotel, surrounded by her children, heading toward the bright, unyielding lights of a city she now owned.
