Chapter 3 - The Cold Wrath of Nathaniel Callaway
Grace lunged forward, ignoring all protocol, and beat the flames out with her bare hands, pulling the blackened, ruined remains of the flannel rabbit from the ash. Lily broke into a frantic, heartbroken sob, hiding her face in her mother's apron.
The ballroom erupted into a murmur of confusion and pity. Vivien stood by, her hand pressed gracefully to her collarbone. "Oh, how tragic. Someone get some water. Grace, please take the child to the back, she’s causing a scene."
But the command was cut short by a voice that made the entire room drop three degrees in temperature.
"Nobody moves."
Nathaniel Callaway stepped out from behind the stone column. His phone, which had been pressed to his ear regarding a shipping delay in Antwerp, was now held loosely in his hand. His face wasn't angry; it was entirely devoid of human warmth. It was the face he wore when he destroyed competing corporations overnight.
He walked past the elite of Boston, his eyes fixed solely on his fiancée.
"Nathaniel, darling, it was just a terrible accident," Vivien said, her voice faltering slightly as he approached. "The decorations were too close to the hearth—"
"I was standing behind the pillar, Vivien," Nathaniel said, his voice quiet, yet carrying effortlessly across the silent ballroom. "I watched you strike the lighter. I watched you hold it to the basket until the fabric caught fire."
A collective gasp rippled through the five hundred guests. Vivien’s face turned from pale to an ashen, sickly white.
"Nathaniel, that is absurd! Why would I ever—"
"Security," Nathaniel interrupted, not lifting his voice by even a decibel.
Within seconds, the chief of estate security, a mountain of a man named Marcus, appeared from the shadows of the foyer.
"Lock the doors," Nathaniel commanded. "No one leaves this ballroom. Turn on the primary displays."
The massive high-definition projector screens, usually reserved for displaying corporate growth charts and charity totals during galas, flickered to life. Instead of logistics data, the screens showed a crystal-clear, high-angle feed from the ballroom’s security matrix, focused directly on the fireplace alcove.
May you like
Nathaniel tapped his phone, casting his private recording of the live feed.
On the screen, magnified for five hundred city leaders to see, Vivien Marsh’s elegant form leaned over the table. The camera caught the exact moment she produced the gold lighter, the deliberate flick of her thumb, and the cold, satisfied smirk on her face as the flannel bunny began to burn.
