Chapter 12 - The Poison in the Champagne Flute
The Metropolitan Museum’s annual Elysian Gala was the crown jewel of Manhattan’s social calendar, a glittering playground where billionaires traded billion-dollar secrets between sips of vintage Dom Pérignon. Julian Blackwood rarely attended such shallow spectacles, but tonight was different. The Blackwood Foundation was auctioning an imperial sapphire collection to fund state orphanages—and more importantly, to publicly display that the Blackwood dynasty was unbroken.
Leo remained at the fortified penthouse under three concentric rings of armed private security, watched over by Dr. Evans. Julian walked the museum's marble corridors in a bespoke tuxedo of midnight blue, radiating an aura of untouchable authority that parted the crowd like the Red Sea.
"Julian, darling! You look positively imperial," purred a voice steeped in Old World European arrogance.
Julian turned his glass in his hand, not breaking stride until he stood face-to-face with Vivienne Sterling-Vance. She was forty-five, draped in an emerald silk gown that contrasted sharply with her raven-black hair pulled into a severe chignon. Her lips were painted the exact color of fresh arterial blood. Beside her stood two European bodyguards whose suits bulged slightly beneath the armpits.
"Vivienne," Julian said, his voice flat, devoid of courtesy. "I expected you to be cowering in Saint-Moritz, considering your sister is currently scrubbing prison cafeteria floors in upstate New York."
Vivienne didn't flinch; her lips curved into a slow, serpentine smile. "Victoria was a fool. She let a boy provoke her into throwing a tantrum before society's cameras. You smash a cake, you smash your own standing. I wouldn't have wasted my time with frosting, Julian. I prefer dissecting the carotid."
"If you came within ten miles of my son, Vivienne, you won't even make it to a jail cell. I will bury you so deep beneath the Atlantic that God won't remember your name."
"A son?" Vivienne chuckled softly, stepping closer until her breath brushed his lapel. "A bastard born of Clara’s hidden shame? A child whose true bloodline isn't Blackwood, but the bastard product of a back-alley deal? You wrapped your family crest around him, Julian, but you cannot scrub the rot from his veins."
Julian stepped into her space, towering over her with eyes so mercilessly cold that one of her bodyguards instinctively stepped forward—only to be intercepted by Marcus, whose hand hovered centimeters above the concealed Glock under his jacket.
"Leo is my son," Julian whispered into Vivienne's ear, every word dropping like lead. "And the next time you speak his mother’s name, I will take the Vance bank accounts, your European estates, and every diamond around your neck, and burn them to ashes before midnight. Test me."
Vivienne’s smile faltered for the fraction of a second. She took a step back, her eyes flashing with venom. "Enjoy your evening, Julian. Have a toast to your perfect, golden family. Let's see how long the wine stays sweet."
She turned and disappeared into the glittering throng of socialites.
Julian glanced at Marcus. "Keep four men on her at all times. If she sneezes, I want to know the velocity of the air."
Before Marcus could reply, Julian’s secure satellite phone buzzed against his chest. A high-priority red alert from the penthouse.
Julian tapped his ear-piece instantly. "Report."
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Dr. Evans’s voice came through, trembling with sheer, unadulterated panic: "Julian... the penthouse security feed cut out twenty seconds ago. The power went dead. And Julian... Leo isn't in his bed."
***
