Chapter 8
I checked the small digital clock running along my wrist.
*10:45 PM.*
One hour and fifteen minutes left.
The tension in the air was reaching a physical pressure, thick enough to choke on. Upstairs, the bass notes of the orchestra vibrated through the ceiling tiles. Four hundred people were drinking Felix's liquor, laughing at his jokes, waiting for the great coronation.
I stood up, walked to the full-length mirror on the green room wall, and looked at myself.
The black wool dress was hideous. My hair was pulled back into a severe, tight bun. My face was bare of makeup, pale under the cold light.
I looked like a victim.
I looked like every woman Felix Sterling had ever broken, discarded, and wiped from his ledger.
I reached into the hidden lining of my black sleeve, feeling the cool, rectangular weight of an encrypted silver flash drive.
"One hour and fifteen minutes," I whispered to the reflection in the glass. "Seventy-five minutes until midnight. And then we burn it down."
***
At eleven-fifteen, Felix’s head of security, a hulking ex-military operative named Vance, knocked twice and shoved the green room door open.
"Time, Mrs. Sterling," he grunted, not even looking at me. "Mr. Sterling wants you staged backstage at the dais wings."
I checked my wristband as I rose. *11:15 PM.* Exactly forty-five minutes remained until the midnight stroke.
I walked behind him through the labyrinth of service corridors, stepping around crates of empty champagne bottles and frantic catering staff. The roar of the ballroom grew louder with every step—a cacophony of elite laughter, clinking crystal, and the steady, rhythmic drone of a room intoxicated by wealth.
We emerged into the wings of the grand stage.
Overhead, a digital production monitor bolted above the lighting rack displayed the technical master clock: *11:15:22 PM*, alongside the broadcast countdown for the midnight announcement: *00:44:38*. Forty-four minutes.
The stage itself was magnificent. Backlit by a fifty-foot digital projection of the Sterling family crest—a golden lion holding a sword—it commanded the entire two-story ballroom. In the center stood a sleek podium carved from solid white Carrara marble, fitted with three high-definition monitors and a bank of state-of-the-art microphones.
Felix was already standing in the wings, surrounded by six members of the Sterling executive committee.
He was glowing. His cheeks were flushed with three glasses of 1996 Krug; his velvet tuxedo fit him like an emperor's armor. Lord Harrington stood three paces away, leaning heavily on a silver-topped cane, his sharp old eyes watching Felix with an expression of stony, unreadable neutrality. Mrs. Kensington stood beside him, clutching a vintage leather evening bag, her face frozen in aristocratic disapproval.
"Ah, the blushing bride," Felix said mockingly as Vance nudged me toward the holding area behind the velvet curtain.
The executives looked at my black wool dress with visible discomfort. Two junior vice presidents quickly turned their heads to hide their smirks.
"Felix," Lord Harrington rumbled, his voice cutting through the chatter. "Is it customary in your household for the lady of the estate to dress for a funeral on her first anniversary?"
Felix laughed airily, draping a heavy arm over Harrington’s shoulder—an overfamiliar gesture the older man visibly bristled at.
"Blair has a somber nature, Lord Harrington," Felix said smoothly. "We must respect her simple tastes. Besides, after midnight, she won't have to worry about high society anymore. She’s returning to her family’s... more humble pursuits."
Harrington’s white eyebrows drew together. "Is that so?"
"Indeed," Felix sneered, pulling the thin manila folder from his breast pocket and tapping it against his palm. "A mutual parting of ways. Clean, efficient, and thoroughly vetted."
For the next twenty-five minutes, Felix held court in the wings like an uncrowned king. He sipped vintage champagne, greeted arriving board members, and barked orders at production assistants while the clock steadily ate away the final minutes of Day 365.
At 11:40 PM, a sharp, two-vibration pulse thrummed against my right wrist.
*Perimeter breached. Federal warrants on site. Positioning at south double doors.*
Gabriel was inside the gates.
At 11:50 PM, Felix turned away from Harrington and corners me against the curtain track. His slate-blue eyes narrowed into cold slits, his breath sour with alcohol and contempt.
"When I call your name, Blair, you walk onto that stage. You stand to my left. You smile for the photographers. When I present this document, you take the pen, you sign the waiver, and you step down the backstage stairs into the waiting town car. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Felix," I said, my voice barely audible beneath the roar of the crowd.
"If you hesitate," Felix whispered, leaning down so only I could hear the venom in his throat, "if you shed a single unscripted tear or make a scene before that board, I will call the debt collectors on your father's firm before the sun rises. I will take his house. I will take his hospital bed. I will leave your family rotting in the street."
I looked up into his face. For the first time all day, I didn't tremble.
"I understand everything, Felix," I said softly.
He didn't notice the change in my tone. To a man drunk on his own supremacy, every soft voice sounds like surrender.
"Good," he said, turning toward the stage manager who was holding a clipboard.
The clock on the wall struck 11:56 PM.
"Two-minute warning, Mr. Sterling!" the stage manager called out. "Cue the orchestra! Lower the house lights!"
The ballroom fell into a hush.
The soaring strings of the orchestra faded into a low, dramatic rumble. The massive crystal chandeliers dimmed to twenty percent, leaving only two blinding, sixty-thousand-lumen spotlights pointed directly at the marble podium on the dais.
A giant digital countdown timer flashed onto the center of the massive LED screen behind the stage, synchronizing directly with the midnight transition clock:
*00:03:45*
Three minutes and forty-five seconds until midnight.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the master of ceremonies announced over the quadraphonic sound system, his voice booming through the hall. "The Chief Executive Officer of Sterling Holdings, and heir to the Sterling Dynasty Trust—Mr. Felix Sterling!"
The ballroom erupted into deafening applause. Four hundred titans of Wall Street, London, and Zurich rose to their feet.
Felix adjusted his lapels, flashed a brilliant, predatory smile, and strode onto the stage into the blinding glare of the white spotlights.
He basked in it. He held his arms out wide, drinking in the adulation like a man who believed the universe had been created solely for his pleasure.
He reached the podium, gripped the marble edges with his manicured hands, and leaned into the microphone.
"Thank you," Felix said, his baritone voice washing over the audience with effortless charm. "Thank you all. Three hundred and sixty-five days ago, my late father, Arthur Sterling, laid down a challenge. He believed that to lead this dynasty, a man must understand commitment. He must understand governance. He must prove that he can build a union worthy of the Sterling name."
In the audience, Vivienne Laurent stood near the front row, clapping enthusiastically, the stolen emeralds blazing against her green gown.
"Tonight, at midnight," Felix continued, his voice swelling with theatrical passion, "the terms of that challenge are fulfilled. The Sterling Dynasty Trust transitions its full eight-billion-dollar corpus into my permanent stewardship."
