Chapter 2 - After the Applause
No one applauded when Victoria Langford was escorted from the ballroom.
That would have required the guests to admit they had witnessed something.
Instead, conversation returned in nervous fragments.
The quartet resumed playing.
Waiters lifted broken glass.
Donors pretended the evening could continue.
Emma could not.
Her catering manager, Richard Pell, found her beside a service corridor.
“You put your hands on a guest.”
“She was going to hit an elderly woman.”
“You put your hands on Victoria Langford.”
Emma stared at him.
“So that changes what happened?”
“It changes what happens to us.”
Richard’s face was pale with panic rather than anger. He had managed luxury events for nineteen years. He understood exactly how much one wealthy patron could destroy.
“She funds three of our biggest annual accounts.”
“And that means she gets to slap people?”
“It means you should have called security.”
“They were standing twenty feet away.”
“You’re suspended.”
Emma laughed once.
It came out painfully.
“Suspended?”
“Until this is reviewed.”
“My shift isn’t over.”
“It is now.”
Emma untied her apron.
She wanted to throw it at him.
Instead, she folded it because uniforms came out of employees’ paychecks when damaged.
That humiliation nearly broke her.
“Miss Carter.”
Vincent Moretti stood at the other end of the corridor.
Richard immediately straightened.
“Mr. Moretti, I was just explaining—”
“I wasn’t speaking to you.”
Richard went silent.
Vincent approached Emma.
Up close, he seemed less like the public figure from financial magazines and more tired than she expected.
“Would you come with me?”
Emma looked toward Richard.
“My employment apparently ended five seconds ago.”
Vincent’s eyes cooled.
Richard swallowed.
“Suspended. Temporarily.”
Emma followed Vincent into a private salon.
Isabella sat near the window.
Her burgundy gown had been covered by a cashmere shawl. A physician from the gala knelt beside her, checking her blood pressure.
“No concussion, no contact, no fall,” the physician said.
“I told you,” Isabella replied. “The girl stopped her.”
Emma stayed near the door.
Vincent noticed.
“You’re not in trouble here.”
“People keep saying versions of that tonight.”
Isabella smiled faintly.
“I like her.”
Vincent dismissed the physician.
Then his expression turned serious.
“My mother says her purse disappeared.”
Emma nodded.
“There was an ivory bag on the wheelchair.”
Vincent looked at Isabella.
“You told me you weren’t bringing anything.”
“I told you I wasn’t bringing anything you needed to concern yourself with.”
“That sentence has never improved my evening.”
Isabella ignored him.
“What did you see, Emma?”
Emma reconstructed the scene.
Victoria standing in front of Isabella.
The raised hand.
Guests turning.
The tray.
The missing purse.
Then she remembered something.
“Before Victoria came over, a man bent near the wheelchair.”
Vincent’s head lifted.
“What man?”
“I didn’t see his face clearly. Dark suit. Silver tie. He said something like he was picking up a dropped program.”
Isabella’s expression hardened.
“Leonard?”
Vincent turned.
“Why would Leonard Shaw be near you?”
Emma recognized the name.
Leonard Shaw was chief financial officer of Moretti Holdings, frequently photographed beside Vincent at investor events.
“I’m not sure it was him,” Emma said.
Isabella looked toward the closed door.
“I was supposed to meet an auditor tonight.”
Vincent’s patience thinned.
“Mother.”
“Privately.”
“You organized a private audit of my foundation without telling me?”
“Your foundation?”
Isabella’s voice became suddenly sharp.
“I created the Moretti Relief Trust before you had enough money to buy your first hotel.”
Vincent looked away.
For a moment Emma wished she could disappear.
Isabella continued.
“Six months ago, I noticed discrepancies in hospital-access grants. Pledges were announced publicly. Transfers were smaller. Administrative invoices grew. Consultants appeared who had no websites, no employees, and very expensive mailing addresses.”
Vincent’s face changed.
“How much?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Estimate.”
“Millions.”
The word seemed to darken the room.
Emma thought of her father’s hospital bills.
Her unopened envelope.
Her sister’s tuition.
She hated herself for making the connection when Isabella had just nearly been struck.
“What was in the ledger?” Vincent asked.
“Dates. Pledge amounts. Account numbers. Vendor names.”
“Why paper?”
“Because databases can be altered.”
Vincent paced once toward the window.
“Who was the auditor?”
Isabella hesitated.
“Daniel Mercer.”
Vincent stopped.
“He resigned from our compliance team eight months ago.”
“He said he resigned because Leonard buried his findings.”
Emma saw anger finally reach Vincent’s face.
“Why didn’t he come to me?”
“Perhaps he thought Leonard was acting with your knowledge.”
That landed.
Vincent went completely still.
Someone knocked.
A security supervisor entered.
“Mr. Moretti, we checked the ballroom floor, restrooms, coat check, kitchens, and service corridors.”
“The purse?”
“Missing.”
“Cameras?”
The supervisor hesitated.
“There’s a problem.”
Vincent stared at him.
“What problem?”
“Between 7:42 and 7:51, the ballroom’s west camera bank stopped recording.”
Isabella glanced at the antique clock on the wall.
Victoria had raised her hand at 7:48.
Emma felt cold.
Vincent asked, “Equipment failure?”
“We don’t know.”
The supervisor held out a tablet.
“But someone entered the camera control room at 7:40.”
Vincent took the device.
Emma could not see the image.
She saw only his reaction.
His eyes hardened.
Isabella whispered, “Who?”
Vincent turned the tablet toward her.
The picture was grainy but clear enough.
A man in a dark suit.
Silver tie.
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Leonard Shaw.
And in his hand was an access badge issued by Vincent Moretti’s own executive office.
