“Names, please?” he asked, his voice a flat, professional baritone.
“Beatrice Sterling. We are here for… Elena’s ‘party’,” she said, her voice dripping with mockery.
The guard checked a high-tech tablet. “Ah, yes. The Sterling party. Ms. Vance is expecting you. Thirty-one guests total? Please, enter. Follow the winding drive for two miles. The main house is at the cliffside.”
Beatrice’s smile faltered. “Two miles? To the house?”
As the gates swung open silently, the laughter in the SUVs began to die down. They weren’t driving toward a rental cottage. They were driving into a fortress.
As the Sterling convoy wound its way up the private road, the silence inside the vehicles became heavy. They drove past private vineyards that were meticulously pruned, a professional-grade stable filled with championship horses, and a private helipad where a sleek, black helicopter sat with the logo of Vance Global emblazoned on the tail.
This wasn’t just a house. This was a statement of global dominance.
When they finally pulled into the circular driveway of the $50 million limestone and glass mansion, thirty uniformed staff members were lined up at the entrance. A head butler in a crisp, midnight-blue tuxedo stepped forward with the grace of a diplomat.
“Welcome to the Vance Estate,” he said, opening Beatrice’s door. “Please leave your keys with the valets. The CEO is expecting you in the Grand Ballroom.”
The Sterlings walked through the foyer like ghosts entering a cathedral. They were “old money,” but this was “infinite money.” The walls were lined with original Picassos and Warhols that had been missing from the public eye for decades. The chandeliers were solid crystal, casting a light that made Beatrice’s “heirloom” diamonds look like dull pieces of glass.
