The flashbulbs at the Winter Solstice Gala were blinding, a wall of white light that greeted every arrival. But when the limousine carrying the Crofts pulled up, the noise level doubled.
The door opened. William stepped out, looking devastating in a tuxedo. He turned and offered his hand.
Victoria emerged. The crowd gasped. The dress was a statement–pure, regal, and imposing. She didn’t look like a victim of a smear campaign. She looked like she owned the building.
They walked the red carpet together, the “United Front” in full force. They stopped for photos, William’s hand protective on the small of her back, Victoria’s chin held high. They answered no questions, their silence radiating power.
Inside the ballroom, Arthur Sterling stood by the ice sculpture, holding a glass of champagne. He watched them enter on the monitors. He smiled, a cold, predatory expression.
“Look at them,” Arthur murmured to Cynthia. “Walking tall. They have no idea they are walking to the gallows.”
Across the room, William locked eyes with Arthur. He didn’t blink. He didn’t look away. He offered a small, terrifyingly calm nod.
Arthur frowned. That wasn’t the look of a man about to surrender his legacy. That was the look of a man who had brought a knife to a fistfight. The music swelled, and the game began.