Chapter 2 - THE SILVER KEYCARD IN HER PURSE
“Where is the children’s money?” Graham’s voice didn’t rise, but it commanded the entire ballroom.
Vivian yanked her wrist free from my grip. She smoothed the front of her red gown, her composure snapping back into place like a rubber band.
“You’re making a scene over an administrative delay,” she said, her eyes scanning the room of wealthy donors. “The wire transfers are scheduled for Monday. It’s standard foundation protocol to hold the funds in an interest-bearing escrow until the school year begins.”
Dr. Reeves, the principal, shook her head from the donors’ table. “I received an email from your office three days ago, Vivian. It explicitly stated the scholarships had been canceled due to insufficient applicant merit.”
A collective gasp rippled through the guests.
Eli pressed his small shoulder against my hip. I rested a hand on his back. His tuxedo jacket felt too thin.
Graham stepped closer to Vivian. The billionaire who usually negotiated corporate mergers with a calm smile now looked like the frightened, furious teenager I used to know.
“You told the school the children weren’t good enough?” Graham asked.
“I protected your assets!” Vivian hissed, her voice dropping so only we could hear. “You wanted to throw millions at public school kids with sob stories. I was setting up an endowment at St. Jude’s Preparatory instead. A legacy that actually benefits our social standing.”
“St. Jude’s,” I said. “That’s an elite private academy. None of these children even applied there.”
Vivian glared at me. “Exactly.”
Graham reached out and gently took Vivian’s evening bag from her hands. She tried to pull it back, but he already had the clasp open. He dumped the contents onto the nearest cocktail table.
Lipstick. A compact. And a heavy, silver keycard bearing the logo of the Vanguard Trust—a private wealth management firm that handled offshore accounts.
“We don’t use Vanguard for the foundation,” Graham said, staring at the silver plastic.
“Graham, don’t,” Vivian warned, her face suddenly pale.
He flipped the card over. There was a name printed on the back. It wasn’t Vivian’s.
Graham looked up, his eyes locking onto a man sitting at the head table. “Why does my fiancée have an offshore access card with your name on it, Arthur?”
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Arthur Pendelton, Graham’s oldest friend and the foundation’s chief legal counsel, slowly set his wine glass down. He didn’t look surprised. He looked caught.
“Because,” Arthur said, standing up and adjusting his tie, “she’s not just protecting your assets, Graham. She’s protecting mine.”
