Chapter 79: Sparklers
The compound had transformed. The cavernous hall, usually all cold marble and echoing silence, was now a river of light and sound. Hundreds of candles flickered in crystal sconces, their light catching on the jewels and watch faces of the assembled guests.A string quartet played something classical and expensive near the grand staircase. The air was thick with the scent of gardenias from the arrangements Sophia had supervised, undercut by the earthy punch of premium cigar smoke and French perfume.Beth made her entrance at eight-twenty. Fashionably, pointedly late enough to ensure eyes were on the door.Her dress was a weapon. Simple, sleeveless, black as a starless night, it clung to her curves before falling in a clean line to the floor.The only punctuation was the sharp crimson slash of her Louboutins. Her hair was swept into a loose, wavey knot, a few artful strands grazing her neck. Emeralds – her own, bought with her own money – glinted at her ears and throat.
She didn’t scan the room for Damien. She simply stepped into the current, accepting a flute of champagne from a passing tray with a nod.
She moved with purpose, not toward anyone, but through the space, a shark cutting through a school of lesser fish.She knew these men. Not just their names, but their portfolios, their vices, their alliances. The beefy guy from Bayonne with the gold pinky ring?His waste management contracts were shaky. The slender, ascot-wearing lawyer from Montclair?He was skimming from the pension fund.
“Frank,” she said, her voice cutting through his conversation.“How’s the hip? I heard about the surgery.” She didn’t wait for an answer, turning to the man next to him.“Aldo. Congratulations on your daughter’s acceptance to Stanford. You must be thrilled.”
She left a ripple of surprise in her wake, the men puffing up slightly at the attention, their wives eyeing her with a mix of envy and appraisal.
Across the room, leaning against the mantle of a massive fireplace, Damien watched.A glass of whisky sat untouched in his hand.
“She’s running a fucking seminar in there,” Marco said from beside him, adjusting his cufflink. He looked sharp in a midnight blue suit, the scar through his eyebrow stark under the chandelier light.“Watch. She’s about to school Petrelli on the difference between a Dominican and a Nicaraguan wrapper.”
They watched as Beth engaged a silver-haired consigliere. She accepted the cigar he offered, examined the band, held it to her nose. Her lips moved, and the old man’s face broke into a grin, followed by a genuine laugh. He patted her shoulder with avuncular affection.“She still remembers,” Damien murmured, a possessive warmth in his voice.
“Of course she remembers,” Marco scoffed, taking a sip of bourbon.“She remembers everything. That’s the problem, man. That’s also the point.”
Damien’s eyes tracked her as she drifted toward Claire and her fiancé, a quiet architect named Leo who looked overwhelmed by the muscle in the room.Beth took Leo’s hand, said something that made him smile and visibly relax. Claire beamed at her, gratitude clear.“She’s making it look easy,” Marco observed.
“It’s not easy,” Damien said, his gaze hardening. He’d seen the subtle shift in her shoulders, the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes when a man named Moretti – a known smuggler with slippery loyalties – leaned too close to speak to her. Beth’s posture remained open, but her knuckles were white around her champagne flute.
Then Sophia appeared. A vision in icy blue silk, she materialized next to Beth, linking an arm through hers with a smile that didn’t touch her cold eyes. Her voice, pitched to carry, sliced through the nearby conversations.“Isn’t she magnificent? We’re so lucky Bethany could join us tonight. It’s so important for Damien to have his… friends… here for such a family occasion.”
The emphasis on “friends” was a stiletto twist. A few people nearby politely nodded.Beth turned the full force of her polished smile on Sophia. “It’s my honor to be here for Claire,” she said, her voice warm honey. She gently disentangled her arm, placing a hand on Sophia’s instead. “But you’re the one who outshines everyone, Sophia.This party… it’s a masterpiece. Everyone’s saying so.” She gestured broadly, encompassing the room. “To pull this off while managing the annual charity gala next week?I don’t know how you do it. I’d be a wreck.”
It was a flawless parry. It redirected praise back to Sophia, publicly acknowledged her domain, and subtly reminded everyone that Sophia’s world was one of parties and galas, while Beth’s was one of mergers and markets.A woman nearby murmured, “You do the gala too, Sophia? My God, you’re a marvel.”
Sophia’s smile froze. She’d meant to highlight Beth’s outsider status. Instead, Beth had painted her as a society hostess and herself as a gracious, humble admirer. “One does what one must,” Sophia managed, before excusing herself with a clipped nod.Marco let out a low whistle.“Damn. She just turned your mom into a party planner.Smooth.”
Damien didn’t answer. His attention was locked on Moretti, who was now approaching Beth again, this time without the buffer of other guests. He loomed over her, saying something that made her laugh, but it was a tight, perfunctory sound.“He’s pressing her,” Damien said, his voice gone flat.
“She can handle Moretti,” Marco said, though his own posture had straightened.
“It’s not him I’m worried about,” Damien muttered. “It’s the message it sends if he thinks he can.”
Beth was calculating the distance to the terrace doors. Moretti’s breath smelled of grappa and cheap ambition. “...and I said to the guy, if you can’t move the product through my channels, then what good are you?” he finished, his hand landing heavily on her forearm.Her skin crawled.She kept her smile in place. “A pragmatic approach, Sal,” she said, using his first name like a razor blade. “Efficiency is everything.” She tried to subtly shift her weight, to dislodge his grip.He held on, his fingers tightening. “See?You get it.You always did. A real woman, not like these other—” His words died as a shadow fell over them both.Damien didn’t touch Moretti. He simply inserted himself into the space between them, his back to Beth, his broad shoulders blocking her from view.His voice was casual, conversational, and utterly devoid of warmth.“Sal. Enjoying the party?”
Moretti’s hand dropped as if burned.“Damien!Yes, yes. Just having a nice chat with your lovely ex.”
“My guest,” Damien corrected, the two words dropping like stones.“The bar just opened a ’78 Macallan. I’d grab a glass before Petrelli drinks it all.”
It was a dismissal, wrapped in the pretense of a tip.Moretti’s face flushed. He stammered something and scurried away.Damien turned. Up close, Beth could see the fury banked in his eyes, a green fire held under immense pressure. “You okay?”
“I was fine,” she said, her own voice low. “You didn’t need to do that.”
“Yes,” he said, his gaze drifting over her head, scanning the room. “I did.”
Marco arrived then, slipping effortlessly to Beth’s other side, completing the shield. He handed her a fresh glass of champagne.“Here.Trade up. Moretti’s breath probably contaminated the other one.” He leaned in, his tone lighter, a private joke for her ears only. “You’re making too many friends, Montgomery. It’s unsettling.”
The three of them stood there for a moment, a small, powerful island in the swirling crowd. Beth felt the protective wall of their presence, one she hadn’t asked for and yet, in the pit of her stomach, was fiercely glad to have. It was a dangerous feeling.
“Don’t let me keep you from your hosts’ duties,” she said to Damien, her mask back in place.
He looked at her, really looked, seeing past the emeralds and the silk to the woman underneath. “You are my only duty tonight,” he said, so quietly only she and Marco could hear.