Chapter 5 The Gala

Isla Pov

The midnight blue gown feels like armor and exposure simultaneously.

I stand at the entrance to The Metropolitan Grand Ballroom, watching crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across a sea of tuxedos and designer gowns. Every person here radiates wealth and power—the kind of people who shape cities with phone calls and handshakes.

I don't belong here.

"Isla!"

Brandon appears at my elbow, looking uncomfortable in his rental tux. At least I'm not alone in my discomfort.

"You clean up nice," he says, but there's tension in his voice that wasn't there this morning.

"I feel like an imposter."

"Fake it till you make it. That's what I do."

The edge in those words makes me look at him more closely. Dark circles under his eyes. A tightness around his mouth. He's been acting strange all week—avoiding eye contact, cutting conversations short.

"Brandon, are you—"

"There's the new king of the city," he interrupts, nodding toward the far side of the ballroom.

Ellis Kennedy stands at the center of a circle of investors and city officials, commanding attention without apparent effort. The tuxedo fits him like it was engineered specifically for his body—which it probably was. Even from across the room, I can feel his presence.

And draped on his arm like a living accessory: a woman who looks like she stepped out of a magazine cover.

My stomach drops.

She's stunning in a way that makes my carefully chosen gown feel inadequate. Designer dress that probably costs more than my monthly rent. Flawless makeup. The kind of effortless elegance that comes from a lifetime of belonging in rooms like this.

She leans into Ellis, whispers something in his ear. He smiles politely, but doesn't pull away.

"That's Sariah Thornton," Brandon says, following my gaze. "Ellis's ex-fiancée. Rumor is they almost got married two years ago."

The information hits harder than it should. "I don't care."

"Sure you don't."

But I do. God help me, I do. And I hate myself for it.

I'm examining the silent auction items—desperate for something to do with my hands—when I feel her approach.

"You must be Isla Cole."

The voice is smooth, cultured, with an undertone that makes my skin prickle. I turn to find Sariah Thornton extending a perfectly manicured hand.

"The architect everyone's been talking about," she continues, smile not quite reaching her eyes.

"And you must be Sariah Thornton." I shake her hand, matching her pressure.

"Ellis speaks very highly of your work." She pauses, studying me with the intensity of someone assessing a threat. "He's always had an eye for... talent."

The pause before 'talent' is deliberate. Loaded with implications.

"How long have you been working for Ellis?" she asks, still smiling.

"A few weeks."

"How lovely." The word drips with condescension. "I've known him for seven years. Worked beside him. Built his empire with him. Some connections run deeper than employment, don't you think?"

It's a territorial marking. A warning disguised as conversation.

I refuse to flinch. "I'm sure they do."

Sariah leans closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "A word of advice, Ms. Cole. Ellis is... complicated. He has a habit of keeping secrets. And people who get too close to those secrets tend to get hurt."

Before I can formulate a response, Ellis materializes beside us. His expression is carefully neutral, but I catch the tightness in his jaw.

"Sariah. I thought you were speaking with the investors."

"I was just getting to know your new protégé." She touches his arm with casual possessiveness.

Ellis's eyes find mine. Something passes between us—too fast to name, too intense to ignore.

"May I speak with you?" he asks me. "Privately."

The balcony overlooks the city skyline—a glittering sprawl of lights and ambition. The night air is cool against my heated skin, a relief after the suffocating atmosphere inside.

"You didn't tell me your ex-fiancée would be here," I say, gripping the marble balustrade.

"I didn't think it was relevant."

"She seems to think otherwise."

Ellis steps closer, close enough that I smell cedar and smoke, close enough that my body responds despite my anger. "Sariah is a business partner. Nothing more."

"Does she know that?"

"What I had with her is in the past." His voice drops lower. "What I have with you—"

He stops himself, but the words hang between us, unfinished and dangerous.

"What do you have with me, Ellis?" The question comes out more vulnerable than intended.

He reaches out slowly, fingers brushing my jaw. The touch is feather-light, electric.

"More than I should."

He leans in. My breath catches. His lips are an inch from mine, and every rational thought evaporates—

"Ellis. Ms. Cole. How fortuitous to find you both here."

We spring apart like guilty teenagers. A man stands in the doorway—late fifties, silver hair, expensive suit. His smile is pleasant, but his eyes are cold.

"Councilman Lloyd," Ellis says, professional mask sliding into place so smoothly it's like the past thirty seconds never happened.

"I wanted to congratulate you on the east district project." Lloyd's gaze shifts to me. "It's a remarkable transformation. Your father would be proud, Ms. Cole."

My blood turns to ice. How does he know about my father?

"David Cole was an exceptional city planner," Lloyd continues, moving onto the balcony. "Such a tragedy, what happened."

"You knew my father?" My voice sounds strange—too high, too tight.

"I worked with him briefly. Brilliant man." Lloyd's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Always asking questions. Sometimes too many questions."

The warning in those words is subtle but unmistakable. My hands start shaking.

Ellis steps between us, voice tight with barely controlled anger. "If you'll excuse us, Councilman—"

"Of course." Lloyd's smile widens. "Enjoy the evening."

He disappears back into the ballroom, leaving behind the scent of expensive cologne and veiled threats.

"He threatened me," I whisper.

Ellis's hands curl into fists. "Lloyd is a dangerous man. Stay away from him."

"Why? What does he have to do with my father?"

"More than you know."

Before I can press for answers, he walks back inside, leaving me alone with the city lights and a growing sense of dread.

An hour later, I watch from across the ballroom as Ellis speaks with Lloyd in hushed tones. They're trying to look casual, but their body language tells a different story. Lloyd's face is flushed, angry. Ellis remains eerily calm, but his hands are clenched at his sides.

"We need to talk. Not here."

Brandon's voice in my ear makes me jump. He looks worse than before—pale, sweating despite the air conditioning.

"What's wrong?"

"I did something." His voice shakes. "Something I shouldn't have. And if you keep digging into the east district project... people are going to get hurt."

My heart pounds. "What did you do?"

Brandon glances around frantically, like he expects someone to be listening. "I can't tell you here. Meet me tomorrow. Alone."

"Brandon—"

But he's already disappearing into the crowd, leaving me with more questions than answers.

Across the room, Ellis is still talking to Lloyd. And somewhere in this ballroom full of beautiful lies, someone knows exactly what happened to my father.

I just need to figure out who I can trust before they figure out how much I know.