Chapter 7 - The Gala Trap
Clara knew an attack was coming. You do not strip a narcissist of their ego without expecting violence.
A week after the banquet, the Sterling-Frost Consortium hosted a monumental charity gala at the Museum of Modern Art. It was Clara’s official coming-out party as the head of the empire. The security was unprecedented. Metal detectors, biometric scanners, and heavily armed guards dressed in tuxedos lined every entrance.
Clara wore a gown of liquid gold, radiating absolute power. She moved through the crowd of billionaires and politicians with Arthur at her side, commanding the room with effortless grace.
But behind the scenes, a trap had been carefully laid.
In the secure communications room overlooking the gala floor, Clara’s head of security, a towering man named Marcus, watched the thermal cameras.
"Ms. Frost," Marcus’s voice crackled in the discreet earpiece hidden beneath Clara’s hair. "We have movement. A catering van just bypassed the outer perimeter. Four unidentified men. They are heading toward the south wing."
Clara kept a flawless smile on her face as she clinked glasses with a tech mogul. "The south wing," she murmured softly to Arthur. "Where the nursery is."
Oliver was not in the nursery. He was safely at the Vanguard Tower, miles away, surrounded by a platoon of guards. The nursery at the museum was a decoy, heavily monitored and rigged.
Arthur’s eyes darkened. "She actually did it. She sent men for our son."
"Let them in," Clara whispered into her comms. "Do not engage until they are inside the room. I want them caught red-handed. I want the conspiracy charge."
In the south wing, four men in black tactical gear slipped through a service elevator. They moved silently down the hallway, carrying suppressed weapons and zip-ties. They reached the door marked Private - VIP Nursery.
The lead man kicked the door open, rushing inside.
The room was completely empty. There was no crib. There was no baby.
Suddenly, the heavy reinforced steel doors of the nursery slammed shut behind them, locking with a definitive, mechanical boom. Bright, blinding halogen lights snapped on.
"Drop your weapons!" Marcus’s voice boomed over the intercom.
May you like
The men turned to the reinforced glass ceiling to see heavily armed Vanguard operatives aiming down at them with laser sights. The mercenaries were professionals. They knew when they were outgunned. Slowly, they placed their weapons on the floor and raised their hands.
Down in the gala, Clara took a sip of her champagne. "Checkmate."
