Chapter 174 - One Hundred-Seventy-Four: The Red Carpet

//CLARA//

"If that silver centerpiece leans even half a degree to the left, Gary, I am personally using your velvet measuring tape to strangle you."

"It’s straight, Clara! It’s geometrically flawless!" Gary shrieked, backing away from the grand archway with his hair standing in five different directions. "The ironworkers nearly lost three fingers polishing the airplane wing structure! Look at it! It reflects light like a newly minted coin!"

"Good. Then make sure the red carpet outside doesn’t look like a crime scene," I barked, stepping over a roll of dark crimson velvet three servants were struggling to align. "The press is already lining the lower courtyard. I want the flash powder photographers positioned every five paces, not clumped together like sheep."

"The reporters are practically rioting at the gate, Eleanor," Oliver called out, walking past with a heavy wooden crate of glass display blocks.

He set it down with a heavy thud and wiped sweat from his forehead with a rag, throwing me an exasperated look.

"They’ve never seen a public entry setup like this. Half the city gazettes think it’s a royal execution, the other half think it’s an invasion."

"Let them think whatever keeps their cameras firing," I said, checking off a line on my leather-bound clipboard without looking up. "When the carriages roll up, I want those flashbulbs blinding the guests before their boots even touch the stone. They shouldn’t be able to see who they’re trying to assassinate until they’re through the front doors."

"And the dress code enforcement?" Oliver asked, leaning his hands on his hips and raising an amused eyebrow at me. "Mr. Vancouver’s entourage arrived early in the outer district. Word is he tried to show up in his traditional house furs."

I snapped my fan open with a loud, wooden crack. "If anyone shows up looking like a historical re-enactor, turn them around at the iron gate. I didn’t stress-draw forty pages of modern silhouettes just for some old lord to wear a wolf pelt into my ballroom."

Oliver let out a dry bark of laughter, shaking his head. "You are completely unhinged today, Eleanor."

"You are being terrifying today, little bird."

I turned around sharply. Casimir stood at the top of the grand staircase, fully dressed in a jet-black, double-breasted coat with sharp, aggressive lapels that practically cut the air. No traditional family sash. No gold embroidery.

"I am not terrifying," I snapped at Casimir. "I am efficient. There are sixty syndicate leaders, forty foreign diplomats, and three rival trade boards walking through those doors in less than an hour. If my layout fails, they start shooting."

Casimir descended the stairs with his dark gaze locked onto mine.

"The guards are posted behind every chrome sculpture. The territory contracts are already signed in blank ink in my study. All we need is for our guests to be thoroughly confused."

I gestured wildly around the grand hall. Where traditional crystal chandeliers usually hung, Oliver’s team had suspended massive, sweeping iron frames that mimicked the skeletal structure of a modern skyscraper.

In the center of the main floor sat an eight-foot-tall, brushed-chrome sculpture of a commercial jetliner, polished so mirror-bright that it reflected the entire room in distorted, futuristic waves. Along the perimeter, glass pedestals held sleek, matte-black slabs designed to look like giant touch-screen tablets, glowing faintly from hidden oil lamps underneath.

"It looks... unearthly," Casimir murmured, stopping beside me and looking up at the giant metal bird. "Like a dream made of cold iron."

"It’s high fashion, Casimir," I corrected him dryly. "Now stand over there and look intimidating. The first carriage just cleared the gates."

Outside, the explosion of flash powder began.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

Blinding white light flared through the tall arched windows every few seconds, accompanied by the muffled, roaring shouts of dozens of press reporters packed behind the iron barricades.

"Miss Thorne! Over here!"

"Mr. Guggenheim! Is it true the traditional crests have been banned?"

"What is the meaning of the metal structures?"

The heavy double doors swept open, and the first wave of guests filed into the foyer.

It was a total chaos.

Mr. Vancouver entered first, blinking furiously from the blinding flashbulbs outside. He looked completely disoriented. Instead of his usual heavy fur mantle, he was squeezed into a rigid, high-collared charcoal coat with exaggerated, boxy shoulders that Gary had personally forced upon his tailors three days prior.

Mr. Vancouver didn’t look at Casimir. He didn’t even look at me. His eyes went straight to the giant chrome airplane in the middle of the floor.

"What in the name of the high heavens..." he breathed, his jaw dropping open as he walked forward, completely forgetting his posture. "Is that... a bird? A weapon?"

"It’s an abstract representation of momentum, Mr. Vancouver," I said smoothly, stepping into his line of sight with a flawless, practiced smile. "Welcome to the Horizon of Tomorrow."

"It’s... it’s giant," he stammered, reaching out a hand as if to touch the polished metal wing, only to pull it back nervously. "Where are the family crests?"

"Tonight, we leave the past at the door," Casimir’s deep voice rumbled as he stepped up beside me. "Enjoy the exhibition, Mr. Vancouver. Drink the wine. Admire the art."

Before Mr. Vancouver could open his mouth again, a quiet murmur rippled through the entrance hall.

Beatrice entered in a gown of deep charcoal silk, its lines clean with subtle silver embroidery at the cuffs and throat. No hoop skirts. No excessive lace. Just elegant, architectural simplicity that made her look like she belonged in a painting of a future she could not possibly have imagined.

She stopped just inside the threshold, her eyes moving slowly across the ballroom.

For a moment, she simply observed. Then she smiled.

"Eleanor," she said, crossing to me with measured steps. "You’ve outdone yourself."

"You followed the dress code," I said, genuinely impressed.

"Of course I did." She glanced down at her own gown with a small, satisfied tilt of her head. "Though I confess I had to guess at what structural silhouettes meant. I hope I haven’t embarrassed you."

"You look like you’ve stepped out of the year 2000."

She raised a brow. "I’ll take that as a compliment, though I have no idea what you mean."

"It is one."

Beatrice accepted a glass of champagne from a passing tray with a quiet nod of thanks. She took a sip, her eyes still scanning the room.

"I suspect your sculptures have done their job," she observed. "They’ve been arguing about the metal bird for ten minutes. It’s the longest they’ve gone without mentioning the railroad contracts in years."

I followed her gaze. Mr. Vancouver and Mr. Marel were indeed standing near the airplane sculpture, both of them frowning at it with identical expressions of confused hostility.

"Oliver made it," I said. "He’s somewhere here tonight."

"I saw him." Beatrice’s voice dropped slightly. "He looked rather dashing in his suit. I told him so."

"Did you?"

"I did." She took another sip of champagne, the faintest blush coloring her cheeks. "I believe he may still be recovering from the shock."

"You’re worried about something," Beatrice said quietly.

I looked at her. "How do you know?"

"Because you keep looking at the door." She tilted her head. "The inspector, I assume? Or has something else happened?"

I hesitated.

Beatrice was my friend but there were things I could never tell her. She didn’t know about the syndicate, about the man that I loved was the very kingpin at the center of it all. She didn’t know about the bodies in the warehouse, or the dual-knife strapped to my waist beneath the silk of my gown.

I had only ever told her about the inspector, circling Casimir like a vulture scenting a dying animal. She knew that much. She knew I was frightened. But she had no idea how deep the rot went, or how much blood was already on my hands.

"The inspector," I admitted. "He’s been asking questions."

Beatrice nodded, unsurprised.

"I’ve heard. My father mentioned it at dinner last week. He said Mr. Guggenheim was being investigated for connections to the murder of a shipping merchant."

I stiffened.

"Don’t worry," she added quickly. "My father thinks it’s absurd. He said the inspector was young and overzealous, and that Mr. Guggenheim was far too clever to leave evidence of murder lying around." She paused. "Though I do wonder if he’s right about the last part."

I looked at her sharply.

She met my gaze without flinching.

"I’m not naive, Eleanor. I know the kind of man your husband is." The word slipped past the rim of her champagne glass, meant only for me. "I also know that whatever is happening here tonight, it’s far more complicated than a charity ball."

She took a delicate sip. "I’m not asking you to tell me. I’m simply saying that if you need help...with anything, I’m here."

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

"Thank you."