Chapter 6 - THE PROCESSION INTO PURGATORY
The private elevator descended thirty-two floors in total silence.
Vivien Mercer watched the amber digital floor numbers tick downward like a detonator countdown.
She did not look in the mirrored walls of the cab.
She did not want to see the ghost of the bride who had walked into this hotel five hours ago.
Beside her stood Julian Vance, his hands resting casually inside the deep pockets of his charcoal coat.
Two of his private security operatives flanked them, their expressions as unreadable as iron slabs.
Celeste Marlo stood in the far corner, shivering violently despite the plush warmth of the elevator interior.
Her eyes were swollen and smeared with ruined black eyeliner.
Every time the elevator gave a soft hydraulic shudder, Celeste gasped as if waiting for an arrest warrant.
"Straighten your spine, Miss Marlo," Julian said without turning his head.
"Guilt looks pathetic when it is caught unprepared."
Celeste swallowed hard and pulled her cream cashmere coat tightly across her stomach.
"Mr. Vance, please... there are federal judges down there," Celeste whispered through chatter in her teeth.
"The Cook County State's Attorney is sitting in the VIP section."
"I know exactly who is in that room," Julian replied, his voice calm, flat, and absolute.
"I paid for two of their election campaigns ten years ago."
"They understand the sound of my voice much better than they understand Graham’s brochures."
The elevator chime chimed with a soft, resonant ping.
The display read Mezzanine Level: Grand Ballroom Foyer.
The heavy bronze doors slid open smoothly to reveal the opulent corridor leading to the double oak doors.
The foyer was thick with the scent of white gardenias, vintage champagne, and expensive imported perfume.
Through the tall arched doorways, the Chicago Philharmonic string quartet could be heard playing Bach’s Air on the G String.
Over seven hundred high-society guests filled the gilded hall.
They were industrialists, municipal development board commissioners, state senators, and legacy patrons of Mercer Conservation House.
At the far end of the velvet-carpeted center aisle stood Graham Whitlock.
He looked immaculate in his midnight-blue custom tuxedo.
His cufflinks caught the golden glow of the three crystal chandeliers hanging overhead.
He was leaning down slightly, laughing with practiced charm at a remark from his best man, State Senator Douglas Ward.
Graham checked the thin platinum watch on his left wrist with an air of theatrical impatience.
He believed he was minutes away from anchoring forty million dollars in unencumbered textile real estate.
He believed he was sealing the ultimate sacrificial shield before the federal audit struck on Tuesday morning.
Vivien stepped onto the plush burgundy carpet of the foyer.
Her black overcoat swung around her ankles, completely obscuring the ivory silk gown she was supposed to wear.
Her bare ring finger felt light, almost weightless.
"Julian," Vivien said, stopping two paces outside the main ballroom doors.
Julian stopped beside her, tilting his head slightly.
"Yes, Miss Mercer?"
"Do not let your men interfere until I ask for them."
Julian studied her eyes for a heartbeat, measuring the steel behind her pupils.
A faint, cold smile touched the edge of his scarred jawline.
"The floor is entirely yours, Vivien."
May you like
"Take your pound of flesh first."
Vivien placed her hand flat against the heavy oak ballroom door and pushed it open.
