Chapter 2 - Cracks in the Crystal
The sea bass waiter stood frozen, six plates balanced precariously on his tray, clearly unsure whether he had just interrupted a proposal, a breakup, or a scene from a telenovela. Ethan stepped aside mechanically, his legs still trembling from the effort of standing. The crowd's shock was curdling into something else—whispers, the click of a phone camera, the rustle of expensive fabric as people leaned toward each other.
Advertisements
Isabella still hadn't moved.
"You should sit down," she said quietly. "You're shaking."
It wasn't concern in her voice. It was something flatter. Clinical.
Ethan's jaw tightened. "I'm fine."
"You're not." She stood up slowly, brushing imaginary dust from her uniform. "Your left calf is spasming every four seconds. Your grip on the chair was too tight—you were using it to hide the tremor in your hands. You've been standing for approximately ninety seconds, and your breathing pattern suggests you're managing pain, not triumph."
The ballroom tilted slightly.
Brooke's voice cut through the fog. "Oh my God. You rehearsed this, didn't you?" She was moving toward them now, Chad trailing behind like a confused golden retriever. "You planned this whole thing. The wheelchair, the blanket, the—" she gestured wildly at Isabella, "—the sympathetic waitress. You wanted to humiliate me."
Ethan turned to face her. "I wanted to see who you really were."
"I am exactly who I've always been." Brooke's eyes were bright with something between rage and tears. "You're the one who lied. For months. You let me push you around in that chair. You let me believe—"
"You never asked," Ethan said. "Not once. Not how I was feeling. Not whether I needed help. You just... assumed. And then you used it."
Chad finally found his voice. "Brooke, maybe we should—"
"Shut up, Chad."
Chad shut up.
Isabella cleared her throat. "Mr. Vance, I think you should know something."
Ethan turned. Her expression had shifted again—the uncertainty from before replaced by something harder, more deliberate. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a small black device. A voice recorder.
"I wasn't here by accident tonight," she said. "I was hired to document the Sterling Foundation's charity gala for an investigative piece. The Herald has been looking into financial irregularities for months."
The room went very, very quiet.
Brooke's face drained of color. "You're a reporter?"
"Investigative journalist." Isabella—if that was even her name—tucked the recorder back into her pocket. "And I have enough footage from tonight to run a very interesting story about how the Sterling family treats the people they claim to help."
"You can't—" Brooke started.
"I can." Isabella smiled, and it was not a kind smile. "Unless, of course, someone wants to give me a better story."
Ethan stared at her. The woman who had crouched beside him, who had asked permission to touch his hand, who had seemed like the only genuine person in the room—she had been working an angle the entire time.
Advertisements
"You used me," he said.
Isabella met his eyes without flinching. "I observed you. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Ask yourself this, Mr. Vance: if I hadn't come over, would you have stood up? Or would you have let them keep treating you like furniture?"
The question hit harder than he expected.
Before he could answer, a sharp crack split the air. Everyone flinched. It took Ethan a moment to realize it was the sound of the ballroom's main doors being thrown open.
May you like
A man in a dark suit stood in the doorway, flanked by two uniformed police officers. He was holding a piece of paper.
"Chad Miller?" the man called out. "We have a warrant for your arrest."
