Chapter 3: The Gala

The Witford estate in Scottsdale was a monument to old money and quiet intimidation. It sat on a sprawling acreage of manicured desert, a sprawling mansion of glass, steel, and imported Italian stone.

The engagement gala was not a celebration of love; it was a corporate summit masked in silk and champagne. The driveway was choked with Bentleys and Maybachs. Inside, the ballroom was a sea of influential politicians, Wall Street sharks, and Witford board members.

I wore a custom, floor-length white gown. It was stark, minimalist, and unforgiving—a deliberate choice. It was the color of surrender, but also the color of a blank slate. Marcus hovered by my side, playing the doting fiancé, showing me off like a newly acquired racehorse.

“Smile, darling,” he whispered through his teeth as we posed for a photographer. “Half the board is watching. You need to look like you belong here.”

I smiled, though it didn’t reach my eyes. I navigated the room, enduring the veiled insults from the Scottsdale elite who commented on how “charming” it was that a girl from such “humble beginnings” had managed to secure a Witford. I drank sparkling water and watched the power dynamics of the room.

Then, the sea of designer suits parted, and Evelyn Witford approached.

She was a striking woman in her late sixties, wrapped in emerald green silk and dripping in diamonds that probably cost more than my first company. Her eyes were chips of blue ice, and they locked onto me with predatory focus.

“Althea,” Evelyn said, her voice carrying just enough to silence the immediate circle of guests around us. “I am so glad you decided to wear white. It highlights your… innocence regarding how our world operates.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you too, Evelyn,” I replied evenly, my voice smooth and unbothered.

Marcus stepped forward, playing the mediator. “Mother, Althea has brought the paperwork. She’s ready to finalize everything tonight.”

Evelyn’s smile was thin and cruel. “Excellent. Though, I must admit, I was skeptical. It is so hard to tell these days if a girl is truly in love, or if she simply sees a life raft to pull herself out of the gutter.”

The conversation around us died completely. A few board members turned their heads, their eyes gleaming with the anticipation of a blood sport.

“I assure you, Evelyn,” I said, keeping my posture rigid. “I don’t need a life raft. I built a yacht.”

Evelyn’s eyes narrowed. She signaled a passing waiter, who handed her a heavy crystal glass filled to the brim with dark, vintage Pinot Noir. She took the glass, her fingers curling tightly around the stem.

“Confidence is a lovely trait in a self-made woman,” Evelyn said, taking a slow step toward me. “But in this family, we require more than confidence. We require submission to our legacy. We require a cleansing of past… dirt.”

She stood inches from me now. I could smell the heavy, fermented scent of the wine, mixed with her expensive, suffocating perfume.

“Marcus tells me you’ve been stubborn about the financial contribution,” she continued, her voice rising so the entire ballroom could hear. “A hundred thousand dollars to prove you aren’t a parasite. Fifteen percent of your little tech firm to prove you understand loyalty.”

“I understand loyalty perfectly,” I said, my voice dropping an octave, steel ringing beneath the words. “That is why I haven’t signed it.”

Evelyn stopped. The ballroom held its collective breath. Marcus grabbed my elbow, his grip bruising.

“Althea, stop it,” he hissed in my ear. “Don’t embarrass me.”

Evelyn stared at me, a muscle feathering in her jaw. She looked down at my pristine white gown, then back up at my face.

“You think you have power because my husband relies on your computers,” Evelyn said, her voice dripping with pure venom. “But you are nothing but a commoner trying to buy your way into royalty.”

She raised the glass of red wine.

Here it comes, I thought, my heart hammering against my ribs.