Chapter 4 - The Counter-Strike
The ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was dripping in crystal chandeliers and hypocrites.
The Hawthorne Annual Charity Gala was the crown jewel of New York's elite social calendar. For years, I had stood quietly by Brandon’s side, writing the massive check that underwrote the entire event, while Margaret took all the credit on stage. Not tonight.
When Julian and I stepped out of the black town car and walked the red carpet, the flashbulbs went frantic. Word of the spectacular divorce, the frozen credit cards, and the dramatic break-in had already circulated through the wealthy gossip mill.
I kept my posture perfect, my chin high. Julian walked beside me, his presence a steady, calming anchor. He was posing as my new financial advisor, but the way his hand rested securely on the small of my back told the cameras a different, much more scandalous story.
As we entered the grand ballroom, conversations literally stopped. I scanned the room and found them immediately. Brandon and Margaret were holding court near the ice sculpture. Brandon was wearing a bespoke tuxedo I had paid for. Margaret was draped in diamonds—though noticeably missing the $50k Cartier necklace she had failed to buy.
Margaret spotted me first. Her eyes widened in horror, then narrowed into absolute venom. She whispered furiously to Brandon, who spun around, dropping his champagne flute. It shattered on the marble floor.
I smiled and walked straight toward them.
"Olivia," Brandon hissed as I approached, stepping forward to block my path to the other guests. "You have a lot of nerve showing your face here. You are not on the guest list."
"Actually, Brandon," I said sweetly, pulling a gold-embossed ticket from my clutch. "I am the platinum sponsor of this foundation. My name is on the charter. I own the guest list."
Margaret stepped up, her face flushed with anger. "You ungrateful little brat. After everything this family has done for you—"
"Done for me?" I cut her off, my voice calm but loud enough for the nearby socialites to hear. "You mean living in my properties? Driving my cars? Spending my money?"
A few wealthy dowagers nearby gasped, turning their heads to listen. Margaret realized she was causing a scene. She plastered on a fake, terrifying smile.
"You are clearly unwell, Olivia," Margaret said, projecting her voice with practiced fake-pity. "Brandon told me about your... episodes. It's sad, really. The stress of your little corporate job has finally broken your mind."
It was the exact narrative they had tried to sell the locksmith. The exact narrative they gave my CEO.
"My mind is perfectly fine, Margaret," I said, stepping closer to her, lowering my voice so only she and Brandon could hear. "But my accountants are very confused. They can't seem to locate twelve million dollars from Sterling Point Capital."
Brandon stopped breathing. Margaret’s fake smile completely collapsed.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Brandon stammered, a bead of sweat forming on his forehead.
"Yes, you do," Julian intervened smoothly, handing Brandon a folded piece of paper. "That is the routing number for a Cayman Islands shell company. A company registered to a 'Margaret Hawthorne'."
Brandon looked at the paper as if it were a live grenade.
"You have until midnight," I whispered, leaning in. "Return the money to Sterling Point. Or tomorrow morning, this goes to the FBI."
I turned on my heel, my red dress sweeping the floor, and walked toward the VIP tables, leaving them paralyzed in the center of the ballroom.
"That went well," Julian murmured as he pulled out my chair.
"They're going to panic," I said, taking a sip of water.
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"That's exactly what we want. When people panic, they make mistakes."
From across the room, I watched Brandon pull his mother into a private hallway. He was frantically typing on his phone. The trap was set. Now, we just had to wait for them to step into it.
