Chapter 2 - The Charity Ledger
The Grand Pacific Hotel smelled of white lilies, expensive cedar, and old money. Outside, the La Jolla coastline was a dark, churning ribbon of grey under a heavy marine layer. Inside, the ballroom glittered with crystal chandeliers and rows of tuxedoed men and women holding flutes of sparkling water.
I stood near the entrance in a simple navy dress I had bought off the rack at a department store three years ago—the same dress Brendan had once told me looked "charmingly retro" in a way that meant cheap.
Brendan was across the room, laughing softly with a group of people near the silent auction tables. He looked immaculate in a custom-tailored charcoal suit that accentuated his athletic build. Beside him, standing slightly closer than casual acquaintances usually did, was Scarlett Montgomery.
She wore emerald silk that caught every flicker of light in the room, her blonde hair pinned back in an effortless chignon that looked like it had cost more than my first car. She wasn't looking at Brendan; she was watching the entrance, her expression a mix of polite boredom and quiet anticipation.
When she saw me walking toward them, a subtle shift crossed her features—not surprise, but satisfaction.
"Chloe," Brendan said, turning as I approached. He reached out and placed a hand casually on the small of my back, a gesture that used to feel protective and now felt like a brand. "There you are. Did you bring the folder?"
"In my bag," I said, keeping my voice level.
"Good. Arthur is over by the terrace. He’s ready to talk about the regional foundation grant." Brendan smiled down at me, his eyes warm and completely hollow. "Remember what we talked about. Keep it light. Don't mention your parents' work, and definitely don't bring up San Bernardino. It makes people like Arthur uncomfortable."
It was a small, casual cruelty delivered with the casual ease of someone correcting a table setting. Four years ago, I would have swallowed the lump in my throat, nodded, and smoothed down my skirt. Today, I just looked at him.
"I'll keep that in mind, Brendan," I said softly.
I walked past him toward the terrace doors where Arthur Vance, the director of the regional arts foundation and Scarlett’s uncle, stood nursing a scotch. As I approached, I noticed Scarlett peeling away from Brendan to follow me at a discreet distance, clearly wanting a front-row seat to whatever awkward stumble Brendan had programmed for me this evening.
"Mr. Vance," I said, offering a polite, steady smile.
The older man turned, his expression mild until he recognized my face. A flicker of something complicated—almost professional recognition—crossed his eyes.
"Chloe Bennett," Arthur said, adjusting his glasses. "I didn't realize you were involved with this year's preservation committee."
"I'm here supporting Brendan," I said smoothly. "Though I actually wanted to ask you something about the foundation's audit logs from four years ago—specifically regarding the disbursement records for the university dance grant."
Arthur’s hand froze halfway to his mouth. The glass of scotch trembled slightly against his signet ring.
"I beg your pardon?" he said, his voice dropping an octave.
"It’s just that while organizing some old university records," I continued, keeping my tone conversational and light, "I noticed a discrepancy between the public grant winner and the private ledger numbers managed by the board secretary. I figured, since you’ve been on the committee so long, you might know why a runner-up’s family foundation was credited with the exact operating budget of the winner's showcase."
Behind me, I heard a sharp intake of breath.
Scarlett had stopped three feet away, her emerald silk dress suddenly looking rigid against her frame. Across the room, Brendan had stopped talking to his associates. His head snapped toward the terrace doors, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that had nothing to do with charm and everything to do with panic.
Arthur looked from my face to Scarlett, then back to me. The color had completely drained from his cheeks.
"Where did you hear about that ledger?" Arthur whispered.
May you like
I didn't answer right away. I let my gaze drift past him to where Brendan was starting to push through the crowd toward us, his perfect composure finally cracking at the edges.
---
