Chapter 4 - The Closed Fist
For the entire evening, from the moment she had greeted the first guest at the mahogany doors to the grand announcement of her missing heirloom, Celeste Harrington had maintained a very specific posture.
Her left hand—adorned with a three-carat canary yellow diamond engagement ring—had been endlessly busy. It held champagne flutes, gestured toward the chandeliers, touched Gabriel’s arm with tender affection, and adjusted the neckline of her Milanese gown.
But her right hand?
Her right hand had remained stubbornly, unnaturally clenched.
Even when she was crying. Even when she was pointing her finger at me. Even when she had swung her hand to slap me across the face, her fingers had curled back inward almost immediately, hiding something against her palm with the desperate, white-knuckled grip of a child holding a stolen toy.
I stared down at her right fist, locked tightly against the emerald fabric of her dress.
Then I raised my eyes, locking my gaze straight into hers.
The color drained entirely from Celeste’s face. The hysterical, righteous anger in her eyes flickered out in an instant, replaced by a sudden, freezing wave of absolute terror.
Her breath hitched. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
For the first time that evening, the untouchable, perfectly engineered Celeste Harrington did not have an answer.
“Open your hand,” I said.
My voice wasn't loud. It didn't boom across the ballroom like hers had. But because the room was dead silent, every single senator, investor, and socialite heard every single syllable.
Celeste’s knees buckled slightly. She tried to yank her wrist back again, her voice turning into a frantic, high-pitched squeak. “You’re crazy! Let go of me! Gabriel, make this filthy animal let go of me right now!”
“Open your right hand, Miss Harrington,” I repeated, my voice steady, ringing with an authority that stunned the room into a deeper stillness.
Gabriel stopped two feet away. His gray eyes flickered from Celeste’s terrified, sweating face down to her clenched fist, and then back to me. A dangerous, calculating intelligence sparked behind his gaze.
“Celeste,” Gabriel said, his voice dropping into a tone that made even the senators step back. “Open your hand.”
“No! Gabriel, don't listen to her, she’s trying to deflect, she’s—!”
“I said,” Gabriel repeated, stepping forward and placing his large, warm hand over Celeste’s clenched fist, prying her fingers apart with the irresistible force of an industrial press, “open your hand.”
The resistance broke.
Her fingers uncurled.
And something heavy, sparkling, and unmistakable tumbled out of her palm, landing with a sharp clink against the silver tray I was still holding.
The diamond tennis bracelet.
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The heirloom from Gabriel’s mother. The priceless piece that had supposedly been stolen by the poor housekeeper.
It sat right there on the silver metal, flashing cold, brilliant light beneath the crystal chandeliers.
