Chapter 2 - The St. Regis Ballroom and the Five HeiressesThe St. Regis Grand Ballroom was a monument to wealth and pretension. Gold leaf covered the vaulted ceilings, crystal chandeliers cast brilliant amber light over a sea of tuxedos and floor-length silk gowns, and a chamber orchestra played soft Vivaldi concertos near the champagne tower.
A hundred and fifty of New York’s most powerful figures filled the room—senators, hedge-fund tycoons, real estate moguls, and high-society journalists.
Standing near the perimeter in a crisp black waitress uniform was Sienna. Her dark hair was neatly styled in a low chignon, her pad and pen tucked into her apron pocket. Beside her, Rosie adjusted her black bow tie, looking wildly uncomfortable in the luxury setting.
"Keep your eyes sharp, girl," Rosie whispered, leaning close so Sienna could read her lips. "These people eat their own young. Don't let 'em intimidate you."
"I'm fine, Rosie," Sienna smiled gently, keeping her face aimed straight at her boss. "Hungry rich people aren't any different from hungry dockworkers. They just wear better shoes."
At eight o'clock, the heavy oak doors at the top of the ballroom stairs swung open.
A wave of whispered hush swept through the room.
Grant Vance walked down the staircase. He looked devastatingly handsome in a custom-tailored black tuxedo. His jaw was set like dark granite, his posture commanding, his eyes cold and unreadable as he surveyed the crowd.
Standing at the head table near the dais were five breathtakingly beautiful women, each wearing millions of dollars in haute couture gowns and diamonds.
They were Manhattan’s elite, handpicked to win the hand of the city’s most eligible billionaire:
Lady Victoria Sterling: A sharp-tongued British aristocrat and fashion mogul, wearing a blood-red silk gown.
Chloe DeWitt: A blonde real estate heiress with a million-dollar smile and a icy reputation.
Dr. Evelyn Reed: A brilliant, arrogant neurosurgeon from a wealthy political dynasty.
Isabella Rossi: A fiery Italian shipping heiress known for her lavish lifestyle and temper.
Sophia Montgomery: A pristine, polished philanthropist whose family owned half of Wall Street.
Grant walked over to the head table. The atmosphere in the room was thick with tension. Everyone knew what this dinner was: a public arena where Grant Vance was expected to select his future bride.
Grant picked up a crystal glass of champagne, tapped it gently with a silver spoon, and addressed the ballroom. His deep, gravelly voice echoed clearly through the silent room.
"Welcome, everyone," Grant said smoothly, his eyes devoid of warmth. "My family believes it is time for me to secure a partner to preserve the Vance legacy. Five extraordinary women have agreed to join me tonight. But before we discuss marriage, I believe in absolute transparency."
A murmur ran through the crowd.
Sienna stood ten feet away, watching Grant’s lips intently. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she realized what he was about to do. He wasn't looking for a wife. He was holding a public execution.
Grant turned his dark gaze toward the first woman, Lady Victoria Sterling.
"Lady Victoria," Grant said softly, his voice carrying through the quiet room. "Three days ago, your father’s investment firm filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection in London. You didn't accept this invitation because you admire my work. You accepted it because your family needs a eighty-million-dollar liquidity injection by next Tuesday to avoid public disgrace."
Lady Victoria’s face drained of every drop of color. Her hand shook so violently her red wine spilled across her white lace table runner. Gasps erupted across the room.
"How... how dare you!" Victoria gasped, her aristocratic voice cracking.
Grant didn't flinch. He moved his eyes to the second woman, Chloe DeWitt.
"Chloe," Grant continued coldly. "Your social media foundation claims to distribute clean water in Africa. Yet, internal audits from your father's firm show that eighty-two percent of your raised funds go toward funding your private jet leases and luxury wardrobes in Paris. You want a husband who will subsidize your tax fraud."
Chloe’s eyes went wide with pure terror. She clutched her pearl necklace, backing away from the table in tears as whispering broke out among the guests.
Grant turned to the third candidate, Dr. Evelyn Reed.
"Evelyn. A brilliant surgeon. But you haven't stepped into an operating room in fourteen months because your medical license is currently suspended pending a malpractice investigation in Boston that your father paid two million dollars to suppress. You don't want a marriage, Evelyn. You want a cover story."
Evelyn glared at him with pure, venomous hatred, snatched her velvet purse off the table, and stormed down the aisle toward the exit, her high heels clicking loudly against the marble.
The room was in utter turmoil. People were whispering frantically, taking photos with their phones.
Grant didn't stop. He turned to Isabella Rossi.
"Isabella. You signed an exclusive pre-nuptial agreement with a Spanish count six weeks ago in Madrid. You are sitting at this table merely to drive up your settlement demands in Europe."
Isabella slapped her hand onto the table, spat a curse in Italian, and threw her glass of water directly at Grant’s feet before sweeping away into the crowd.
Finally, Grant turned to the fifth woman, Sophia Montgomery—the most poised, pristine, and powerful heiress of them all. She stood her ground, her chin raised, a tight, artificial smile on her lips.
"And you, Sophia," Grant murmured softly. "You are clean. No financial fraud. No medical scandals. No secret lovers."
Sophia’s smile widened slightly. "Thank you, Grant. At least one of us has dignity."
Grant stepped closer to her, his tone dropping into a deadly whisper that still carried to the front rows. "You don't have scandals, Sophia, because you are entirely incapable of feeling anything at all. You spent three years in therapy trying to learn how to fake empathy so you could run your mother's charity. You don't want a husband, Sophia. You want an accessory to complete your corporate image."
Sophia’s artificial smile completely shattered. Her face turned ash-gray. Without uttering a single word, she turned on her heel and walked rapidly out of the ballroom, leaving the head table completely empty.
Five beautiful, wealthy, powerful women. Humiliated, exposed, and driven away in less than ten minutes in front of Manhattan’s high society.
Grant stood alone at the head table. A bitter, victorious smirk touched his lips. He looked around the silent, stunned ballroom, holding his glass high.
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"As you can see," Grant announced coldly to the room, "love is a farce. Loyalty is a commodity. And marriage is nothing more than a poorly negotiated contract."
He set his glass down on the white tablecloth, preparing to turn away and leave the room in total triumph.
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