Bound To The Ruthless Wall Street Butcher
Chapter 3
The ballroom of the Kirk estate was a cavern of gold leaf and crystal. It smelled of expensive perfume and old money.
When Gunnar walked in with Elayne on his arm, the room didn't just go quiet; it froze.
Elayne kept her chin high. She could feel the weight of hundreds of eyes. They were dissecting her. The fraudster's daughter. The ruined girl.
"Smile," Gunnar murmured, his lips barely moving. His hand was a warm, heavy weight on the small of her back. "You adore me."
"I'm contemplating murder," Elayne whispered back, smiling radiantly.
"Good. Passion sells."
He steered her toward the main bar, then paused as a group of gray-haired men waved him over. "Stay here," he commanded. "Don't speak. Don't embarrass me."
He walked away, leaving her stranded on an island of parquet floor.
Almost immediately, the sharks circled.
"Well, well," a voice drawled. Angelique Tate. The Senator's daughter. She was wearing a dress that cost more than Elayne's father's bail.
Angelique stepped into Elayne's personal space, holding a flute of champagne. "I heard they let visitors bring snacks to the penitentiary now. Is that where you've been, Elayne? Visiting Daddy?"
A titter of laughter rippled through Angelique's entourage.
"And that dress," Angelique sighed, looking Elayne up and down. "So... vintage. Is that from the season before the FBI raided your closet?"
Elayne's fingers tightened around her glass. She wanted to shrink. She wanted to run.
But then she remembered the contract. Maintain the Kirk image. A Kirk didn't get bullied. A Kirk destroyed.
Elayne took a slow sip of her wine. She let the silence stretch until Angelique looked uncomfortable.
"It is vintage," Elayne said, her voice sweet and clear. "Unlike your gown, Angelique. Isn't that a Ponti original? I heard he was indicted for money laundering last week. The FBI is seizing all assets purchased from his atelier. You might want to check if they're waiting for you at the coat check."
Angelique's face went slack.
Elayne turned to the woman on Angelique's left. "And Mrs. Vanderbilt. How is your husband? Is he enjoying his time in the Caymans? I heard the weather is lovely, though the paternity laws are quite strict regarding... outside children."
The circle of women recoiled as if Elayne had pulled a knife.
Elayne smiled. She had been a curator. She knew every dirty secret, every hidden asset, every fake masterpiece in this room.
Angelique's face turned a blotchy red. "You bitch," she hissed. She jerked her hand, splashing her champagne forward.
Elayne sidestepped with the grace of a dancer.
The liquid missed her entirely and splashed onto the pristine white tuxedo of the Japanese investor standing behind her.
The investor gasped. The room went silent.
Angelique stood there, glass empty, looking horrified.
A hand settled on Elayne's waist.
Gunnar was back. He looked at the wet tuxedo, then at Angelique's terrified face, and finally at Elayne.
He didn't look angry. The corner of his mouth twitched.
"My fiancée seems to be having a lively evening," Gunnar said, his voice cutting through the tension. He pulled Elayne closer, his grip possessive.
He leaned down, his breath hot against her ear. "I thought I told you to behave."
"I'm protecting your asset value," Elayne whispered back. "Weakness devalues the stock."
Gunnar looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time. There was a flicker of respect in the ice.
"Remind me never to cross you in public," he murmured.
Just then, a commotion at the entrance caught Elayne's eye. She froze.
Meredith. Her stepmother was arguing with security, trying to push past the velvet rope.
Elayne's blood ran cold. If Meredith saw Gunnar, she would demand more money. She would make a scene.
"I need the ladies' room," Elayne said abruptly, pulling away from Gunnar.
She didn't wait for his answer. She turned and walked fast toward the side corridor, slipping out of the ballroom before Meredith could spot her.
She hurried down the hallway, looking for a bathroom, but took a wrong turn. She found herself at the foot of the grand staircase. She ran up, needing to put distance between herself and the chaos.
She opened the first door she found on the second floor and slipped inside, leaning back against the heavy wood, breathing hard.
The room was dark. It smelled of old paper and dust.
"Who are you?" a voice rasped from the shadows. "Why do you hold yourself like that?"
Elayne jumped, her hand flying to her throat.
In the corner, sitting in a wheelchair, was an old man. His skin was like parchment, his eyes clouded with cataracts. Old Man Kirk. Gunnar's grandfather.
He pointed a shaking finger at her. Specifically, at the locket resting on her collarbone.
"That locket," the old man whispered. "It's a Patek Philippe 'Firstborn.' My wife had one. A heavy thing for a girl with no child to wear."
Elayne clutched the locket tight. Inside was the only photo she had of her son.
"I... I don't know what you mean," she stammered, backing toward the door.
"Liar," the old man hissed. "The blood always tells."
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