Chapter 4 - The Gala of Vipers
Being Damian Sterling's personal attendant was like being tethered to a live grenade. Beatrice was no longer confined to the shadows; she was thrust into the blinding, artificial light of the elite. She stood behind Damian during board meetings, poured his drinks at high-society luncheons, and watched as he ruthlessly dismantled rival CEOs with a smile.
She was his prisoner, kept close so he could monitor her every breath, but he was also her unwitting shield. As long as Damian thought she was holding the drive to negotiate a blackmail payout directly with him, Arthur wouldn't touch her.
The annual Sterling Foundation Charity Gala arrived, transforming the severe citadel into a glittering, sickening display of wealth. Over a thousand billionaires, politicians, and socialites filled the grand ballroom, drinking champagne paid for with the blood of undocumented laborers.
Beatrice wore a tailored black uniform, standing silently by the marble pillars, watching the room. Damian was across the floor, charming a foreign ambassador.
This was her moment.
The USB drive contained the name of a single incorruptible figure: Elias Vance, an investigative journalist based in London, the mentor of the man the Sterlings had murdered in the study. Beatrice couldn't email the files—the estate's network was heavily monitored. She needed to get a physical message out.
She spotted Senator Hayes, a man known to despise Arthur Sterling but forced to attend for political optics. He was speaking with a French diplomat.
Beatrice picked up a tray of champagne flutes and glided through the crowd. As she passed Senator Hayes, she expertly feigned a stumble, bumping his elbow. A few drops of champagne spilled onto his tuxedo sleeve.
"My deepest apologies, Senator!" Beatrice gasped, immediately pulling a white cloth napkin from her apron and dabbing at his sleeve.
"Watch where you're going, girl," the Senator growled.
"I am so sorry, sir," Beatrice whispered, keeping her head bowed. As she pulled the napkin away, she smoothly slipped a small, folded piece of paper into the outer pocket of his tuxedo jacket.
She bowed and retreated into the crowd. The note contained an encrypted email address and a simple message: The Sterling Citadel is built on bones. Tell Elias Vance the drive survived.
As she slipped back to her pillar, a heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder.
"What were you doing with the Senator?" Damian’s voice hissed in her ear.
"He spilled his drink, sir. I was assisting him," Beatrice replied smoothly, her face an unreadable mask.
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Damian grabbed her arm, his grip bruising, and dragged her out of the ballroom into a deserted, dimly lit hallway. He slammed her against the cold granite wall.
"Do not play games with me, Beatrice," Damian snarled, dropping the charming prince facade. "I know you're plotting something. You have 24 hours to hand over the drive, or I hand you over to my father. And trust me, you do not want to see what my father does to traitors."
