A ripple of polite, detached laughter washed through the crowd.
I reached down and picked up the leather envelope. My hands, I noticed with a clinical sort of detachment, were entirely steady. It surprised me. The adrenaline hadn’t hit; instead, a glacial calm had descended over my nervous system.
Inside was a single, heavy-stock card. The paper was artisanal, expensive—the kind meant to convey unspoken authority.
Thank you for your generous support of Vance Chen’s mayoral campaign. Your contribution of $850,000 has been noted. We look forward to your continued patronage.
Beneath the formal typeface, scrawled in Vance’s elegant, sweeping handwriting, was a personal addendum: You’ve been such a good little donor. Don’t worry, I’ll find someone worthy of standing beside me.
The ballroom had fallen into a hushed, expectant silence. I lifted my gaze from the card to Vance. He was practically vibrating with anticipation, waiting for the fracture. He wanted a reaction—a tearful breakdown, an angry outburst, a pathetic, hysterical scene he could later spin to his advantage. She got too emotional. Poor thing couldn’t handle the pressure of my world.
Instead, I let the silence stretch. Then, I smiled back. A genuine, terrifying smile.
“You’re right,” I projected, my voice cutting through the quiet acoustics of the room with absolute clarity. “You do need someone worthy.”
I turned on my heel and walked toward the exit.
Behind me, the silence shattered into a chaotic symphony of confused murmuring. “Tara!” Vance called out, his voice suddenly laced with a manufactured, frantic concern—his camera-ready tone.
