Chapter 3 - The Counter-Offensive
The Denver Design Gala was held annually at the Denver Art Museum—a glittering, cut-throat evening where the city’s top architects, interior designers, commercial developers, and high-dollar donors gathered to hand out awards and carve up the city’s real estate contracts for the coming fiscal year.
I had spent six months preparing for it. My firm, *Montgomery Living*, was nominated for Best Commercial Restoration for the historical boutique hotel I had redesigned in LoDo.
Ethan was supposed to be my date. We were supposed to arrive as newlyweds, the radiant new power couple of Denver design and development. Richard Ward was the keynote speaker. Ward Development was the headline sponsor.
They thought I wouldn't show up.
They thought I was hiding in Julia’s guest room, sobbing into pillows, terrified of the whispers that were already tearing through Denver’s high society.
They were wrong.
At 7:30 p.m., the valet opened the door of an Uber Black, and I stepped onto the red carpet outside the museum.
I wasn't wearing white.
I was wearing an emerald-green, backless silk column dress by an independent designer I had worked with for years. It clung to every curve of my body, the neckline high and aristocratic in the front, plunging into an uncompromising, lethal V down my spine. My dark blonde hair was swept up into an immaculate, intricate chignon, held in place by antique gold pins. My makeup was sharp—porcelain skin, a slash of bold berry lipstick, and eyes rimmed with charcoal.
On my left ring finger, there was nothing. Not a trace of gold. Not an indentation of diamond. Just bare, unblemished skin.
Beside me, Julia looked lethal in a sharply tailored tuxedo suit, her crimson heels clicking against the stone steps.
"Remember," Julia murmured under her breath as the flashes from the local society photographers began to pop, "you are the prize. They are the background noise."
"I know," I said, smiling effortlessly as the cameras turned toward us.
The whispers started the moment my heels hit the polished marble of the museum lobby.
*"Is that Claire Montgomery?"*
*"Is she alone? Where is Ethan?"*
*"Did you see the video? It has two million views now..."*
*"I heard she demanded half of Ward Development..."*
*"Look at her. She doesn't look like a victim to me."*
I kept my head held high, my spine rigid, accepting a glass of sparkling water from a passing waiter with a gracious nod. I didn't avoid anyone’s gaze. When Catherine Sterling, the reigning dowager of the Denver Historical Society, walked past, I greeted her by name, complimented her sapphire necklace, and discussed the LoDo project with the easy, commanding confidence of a woman who was entirely in control of her world.
Then the room parted.
Like the parting of the Red Sea, the crowd went quiet, drifting back to clear a path.
Richard Ward was walking toward me.
He was flanked by Deborah, who was draped in mink and dripping in diamonds, her face pale with poorly concealed rage. And behind them, looking like a ghost in a tailored Tom Ford tuxedo, was Ethan.
He looked terrible.
The arrogance that usually defined his walk was gone, replaced by a twitchy, hollow desperation. Dark bags hung beneath his eyes, and he had shaved unevenly, leaving a red patch of razor burn along his jawline.
When Ethan saw me, his eyes dilated. He looked at my dress, at my bare finger, at the utter lack of defeat on my face, and his chest rose in a shallow, ragged breath.
"Claire," Ethan whispered, stepping out from behind his parents.
"Ethan," I said, my tone as crisp and light as a fresh snowfall. "Good evening."
Richard stepped between us, his massive frame radiating intimidation. He didn't offer a hand. He stared down at me with the contempt an emperor reserves for an insolent peasant.
"You have a great deal of nerve showing your face here, Claire," Richard said, his voice pitched low so only the surrounding circle could hear. "Finch told me you rejected our generous offer."
"Five hundred thousand to buy my silence?" I asked, tilting my head, taking a slow sip of my sparkling water. "Richard, you know better than anyone that my work is worth far more than that."
Deborah stepped forward, her mink trembling with her fury. "You little parasite. You think you can use our family name to launch your career and then drag Ethan through the mud on the internet? You are finished in this city. Richard has already spoken to the board of the LoDo project. Your contract is being terminated tomorrow morning."
A cold thrill shot through my veins, but I didn't blink. I didn't flinch.
"Is that a threat, Deborah?" I asked quietly.
"It’s a fact," Richard said, leaning in, his eyes narrowing into slits. "You are an amateur playing in a league you don't understand. You sign the settlement by tomorrow noon, or I will ensure that not a single architectural firm, general contractor, or bank in the state of Colorado does business with *Montgomery Living* again. You will be bankrupt before the new year."
Ethan reached out, grabbing his father’s sleeve. "Dad, don't. Stop. Let me talk to her."
"Shut up, Ethan!" Richard barked, not even looking at his son. "You’ve done enough damage with your mouth. Let me clean up your mess."
Ethan shrank back, his shoulders curving inward, the pathetic reality of his existence laid bare for the entire museum to see. He wasn't a partner. He was a pet. A show dog that had failed to win Best in Show.
I set my glass down on a high-top table beside me.
The clink of the glass against the marble sounded like a gunshot in the tense silence.
"You can't terminate my contract on the LoDo project, Richard," I said, my voice carrying with terrifying clarity across the circle of onlookers.
Richard let out a dry, dismissive sneer. "And why is that?"
"Because," I said, reaching into Julia’s small leather clutch and pulling out a folded document, "at four o'clock this afternoon, the Denver District Court accepted our petition for an expedited injunction."
Richard’s sneer froze.
"Under Section 14-10-111, I have filed for an annulment based on intentional fraud," I said, looking from Richard to Ethan, and finally to Deborah. "And as part of that filing, we have submitted documentation showing that Ethan used Ward Development commercial accounts to pay for private surveillance on Rachel Mercer across state lines."
The color left Richard’s face with violent, catastrophic speed.
"That's interstate wire fraud, Richard," I said smoothly, stepping an inch closer to him. "And corporate embezzlement. Marcus Vance has already forwarded the preliminary brief to the Securities and Exchange Commission and the United States Attorney’s Office for the District of Colorado. If you touch my LoDo contract—if you so much as sneeze in the direction of my clients—Marcus will file the full evidentiary packet within the hour."
"You... you wouldn't," Deborah gasped, clutching her pearls with hands that shook violently. "You're bluffing. You don't have those records!"
"Rachel Mercer gave them to me," I whispered.
Ethan let out a strangled, pathetic sound—a cross between a sob and a gasp. "Rachel?"
"She sends her regards, Ethan," I said, turning to look directly at my husband. "She told me to tell you that you were right about one thing. It really is a shame you never got the chance to marry her. Because if you had, she would have destroyed you six years ago. I'm just finishing the job."
Richard’s hands curled into fists at his sides. For a second, I thought the old man was going to strike me right there in the atrium of the Denver Art Museum. His face turned a deep, dangerous purple.
"You are playing with fire, girl," Richard hissed.
"No, Richard," I said, holding his furious gaze without an ounce of fear left in my body. "I am the fire. And your son brought the gasoline."
Before Richard could respond, the museum director took the stage at the far end of the ballroom, his voice booming through the speakers: *"Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. The awards ceremony will begin in five minutes."*
I smiled at the Ward family—a radiant, effortless, razor-sharp smile.
"Enjoy the dinner, everyone," I said sweetly. "I hear the roast beef is almost as dry as your trust fund."
I turned on my heel, the emerald silk of my dress sweeping across the floor, Julia falling into step beside me.
As we walked toward our table in the front row, I could feel Ethan’s eyes burning into the bare skin of my back—desperate, helpless, and completely, utterly broken.
May you like
The counter-offensive had begun. And the Wards were already bleeding.
***
