Chapter 6 - The Ghost in the Valet
The phone screen grew freezing cold beneath my thumb, the pixels of Corinne’s smug, unbothered smirk burning into my retina. “Thanks for taking down the old man, Laura. Now it's your turn.”
Penelope was still holding onto me, her breath warm and shaky against my collarbone, completely unaware of the text message that had just turned the floor to ice beneath my feet. Gabriel was murmuring soft, grounding reassurances, his hand resting gently on my shoulder.
I forced my thumb to lock the screen, shoving the phone back into my beaded evening bag with a hand that barely trembled. Thirty years of survival taught me one immutable truth: panic was a luxury reserved for people who didn't have daughters to protect.
"Mom? Are you okay?" Penelope pulled back, wiping a stray tear from her cheek, her eyes searching my expression. "You look... you look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine, sweetheart," I said, pitching my voice to be steady, warm, and entirely unyielding. I smoothed down the fabric of my simple blue dress. "Just a bit overwhelmed by everything. But this is your night. Keep your eyes on your husband and your guests. Everything else is handled."
Penelope nodded slowly, though doubt still shadowed her features. Before she could press further, Charles Sterling stepped up beside us, his face tight with concern. He must have seen the sudden shift in my posture.
"Laura?" Charles murmured softly, leaning in. "What is it? Did another message come through?"
I kept my voice low, masked by the gentle swell of the jazz band resuming their set. "Corinne. She’s not in handcuffs. The text came from the underground valet. She's looking right at the police cruiser carrying Tristan away."
Charles’s eyes narrowed instantly, a cold flash of corporate pragmatism hardening his gaze. "If she wasn't arrested with him, it means she anticipated the fallout. She’s positioning herself to take control of the secondary asset accounts."
"Not just secondary accounts," I whispered, my jaw tightening. "The shell company she registered—Sterling-Blake Holdings—has power-of-attorney clauses. If Tristan signs away his corporate rights under duress, Corinne legally assumes control of Bennett Enterprises' remaining liquidity by midnight."
"Not if we intercept her first," Charles said, his hand sliding briefly, reassuringly over my uninjured elbow. "My head of security is stationed at the valet exit. I'll have him lock down the underground garage gates right now."
I shook my head, my eyes tracking toward the service exit where the detectives had disappeared just moments before. "No. If we trap her too openly, she’ll trigger a data wipe on her mobile server, and we’ll lose the paper trail linking her directly to the forged bank loans. We need to draw her out."
"Draw her out how?" Charles asked, his brow furrowing.
"By letting her think she’s won," I said, a dangerous, cold clarity settling deep into my chest. "She thinks I'm a helpless, discarded housewife who just handed her everything on a silver platter. Let's see how confident she feels when she realizes the house she's trying to steal doesn't actually belong to Tristan—and never did."
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Before Charles could answer, the ballroom doors swung open again—not for police, but for a courier holding a heavy, sealed legal envelope addressed directly to Mrs. Laura Bennett.
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