Chapter 3 - THE TAINTED CHAMPAGNE
The line was dead, but the dial tone hummed in my ear like a hornet.
My knuckles were white around the phone.
Eleven-fifteen.
I checked the brass desk clock.
11:04 PM.
Eleven minutes.
I shoved the phone into my beaded clutch and snapped the brass clasp shut.
My pulse hammered against my ribs, hard and irregular.
Graham had called me an investment.
He had mocked our marriage to appease the wolves at his throat.
He had treated my ten years of devotion like a useful brand logo.
Let him choke on it, a dark, bitter voice whispered inside my chest.
Let Marcus take him down.
Walk out the side gate and take the midnight ferry to Savannah.
I looked at the painting covering the wall safe.
Beneath the canvas lay his father’s watch.
The watch worn by an honest man who had died with saltwater in his lungs so his son wouldn't have to carry crates.
Graham was a monster to the city.
He was ruthless to his rivals.
He had just broken my heart into jagged shards in front of four laughing men.
But he was not a traitor.
And he did not deserve to be executed by a coward who smiled at our dinner table.
I pulled open the desk drawer.
Beneath the velvet tray of fountain pens sat a small, pearl-handled .22 pistol.
Graham had given it to me six years ago after a rival family tried to intercept our car in Myrtle Beach.
“I pray you never lift it, Eleanor,” he had told me back then, kissing my knuckles.
“But if someone comes through my front door, you put two in his chest and you run.”
I checked the cylinder.
Six hollow-point rounds.
I slipped the cold metal into the hidden pocket sewn into the skirt of my navy dress.
The fabric was heavy enough to conceal the weight.
I walked to the mirror, wiped the faint smudge of mascara from beneath my lash line, and smoothed the silk over my hips.
I was Eleanor Calloway.
I had hosted ambassadors, cartel envoys, and corrupt senators without spilling a single drop of wine.
I was not going to break tonight.
I descended the grand staircase with my shoulders squared and my chin lifted.
The ballroom was ablaze with light.
Three hundred guests stood beneath the crystal chandeliers, their chatter rising like the hum of a hive.
At the center of the room stood Graham.
He held court beside the four-tiered anniversary cake.
Standing beside him was Cecelia Vance, dressed in a shimmering gold slip dress that clung to her curves like melted honey.
She was laughing, her hand resting casually on Graham’s forearm.
On his sleeve.
Just above his left hand.
My throat burned, but my face remained carved of polished stone.
I walked through the crowd.
The sea of black tuxedos and designer gowns parted before me.
“Mrs. Calloway,” someone murmured.
“Happy anniversary, Eleanor,” another smiled.
I nodded, smiling the thin, radiant smile they expected from the boss's wife.
I reached the head table.
Graham turned as my perfume reached him.
His eyes swept over me, taking in the navy gown, the smooth hair, the absolute composure.
For a second, something hot and possessive flared in his dark gaze.
He shook off Cecelia’s hand without looking at her.
He stepped toward me, holding out his left palm.
“There you are,” he said softly, his voice low enough for my ears alone.
“I was about to send Marcus upstairs to carry you down.”
“Marcus is busy,” I replied smoothly, slipping my hand into his.
His fingers locked around mine.
Warm.
Familiar.
A lie.
Servers in black aprons began weaving through the tables, carrying silver trays lined with crystal flutes of Dom Pérignon.
At the edge of the bar, I saw the server who had spoken to me earlier.
Beside him stood Marcus Kane.
Marcus tapped the rim of one specific glass with his gold pinky ring.
A tiny, almost invisible gesture.
The server nodded once, took the tray, and began walking directly toward Graham.
My breath trapped in my throat.
11:12 PM.
Three minutes.
The server approached our table.
He bowed slightly, offering the tray to my husband.
“Mr. Calloway. A toast for the milestone.”
Graham reached out to take the center glass.
The one Marcus had touched.
My fingers tightened around Graham’s wrist with brutal, desperate force.
His fingers hovered an inch from the crystal.
He frowned, turning his head toward me.
“Eleanor?”
I didn't answer him.
I looked at the server.
The young man’s eyes flickered, his Adam’s apple bobbing in terror.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice sweet as summer clover.
“My husband prefers the vintage from our private cellar for his anniversary.”
Before Graham could speak, my right hand struck the silver tray from beneath.
The silver tray flipped.
Six crystal flutes shattered across the white linen cloth in a violent explosion of foam, glass, and vintage wine.
The liquid hissed as it soaked into the silk runner.
A few droplets splashed onto the arm of an adjacent chair.
Within three seconds, the polished varnish on the mahogany wood began to bubble and peel like burned skin.
Cyanide.
The ballroom went completely, terrifyingly silent.
The string quartet missed their beat and stopped.
Three hundred people froze, staring at the smoking table runner.
Graham looked at the melted varnish.
Then his eyes moved to the pale, shaking server.
And finally, to me.
“Get the doors,” Graham whispered.
His voice was no longer that of a celebratory husband.
It was the voice of a man who ruled by slaughter.
The heavy oak doors of the ballroom slammed shut from the outside.
May you like
Heavy iron deadbolts slid into place with a sickening, synchronized thud.
Then the crystal chandeliers overhead exploded into darkness.
