The Bellevue Hotel shimmered under the downtown lights, a beacon of opulence and power. Tonight was the Mayoral Primary Victory Gala, Hallowell’s crowning moment before the general election. Thousands of people, from political donors to local media, were gathered inside, celebrating his landslide nomination.
I stood across the street, huddled in Samuel’s borrowed trench coat, the collar pulled high. He had managed to procure an old catering pass, a relic from a client he’d audited years ago. It was a flimsy piece of laminated cardstock, but it was my only ticket in. My own clothes were long gone, replaced by a simple, elegant black dress Samuel had purchased, a sharp contrast to my usual uniform of despair.
“This is insane, Elena,” Samuel whispered, adjusting his own tie. He would stay outside, a backup. “You don’t have to do this. Kincaid’s team is on the way.”
“He framed me as an eco-terrorist,” I said, my voice cold, resolute. “Put a bounty on my head. I have to look him in the eye before he steps onto that stage. He needs to know I wasn’t broken.”
My heart thrummed with a strange mix of fear and righteous fury. Howie, left in Samuel’s car with a fresh bowl of water, gave a soft whimper as I closed the door.
I walked towards the hotel entrance, blending with the stream of well-dressed guests. The air buzzed with excitement, the flash of cameras, the murmur of anticipation. My catering pass felt flimsy, but the confidence I projected was a shield.
Hotel security was tight, but focused on the main ballroom entrance. I slipped through a side corridor, following the worn carpet to the service elevator. It hummed softly, carrying me upward, away from the throngs.
The VIP holding suite was upstairs, tucked away from the main festivities. I knew Hallowell would be there, preparing for his grand entrance, surrounded by his inner circle. I checked the pass, then my own reflection in the polished brass doors of the elevator. My eyes were burning, but my jaw was set.
I stepped out onto the executive floor, the plush carpet muffling my footsteps. Brenda Gable’s voice drifted from an open door, sharp and commanding.
“Ten minutes to stage time, Richard!” she called.
This was my chance. I intended to confront him face-to-face, to strip away his carefully constructed facade, before he could step into the spotlight and continue his reign of deception. The federal team might be en route, but this reckoning had to start with me.
+ There are no comments
Add yours