Chapter 11: The Blood Red Gala

 

The private transatlantic supersonic jet cut through the dawn clouds above Manhattan, descending toward the exclusive runway at JFK.

Inside the whisper-quiet stateroom, Lyra rested her cheek against her palm, looking out over the waking skyline. Across from her, Damon Blackwood was reviewing tactical casualty reports from the Baltic raid. Even in a relaxed posture, with his dark tie loosened and sleeves rolled to the forearms, the dangerous intensity radiating from him was suffocating.

"The European council surrendered three deep-water ports before midnight," Damon said, not looking up from his encrypted screen. "The Iron Syndicate’s naval supply line is completely severed."

"And what about New York?" Lyra asked, her voice smooth. "Julian's arrest and the collapse of the Carter Group created a vacuum in Manhattan's private equity circle. Who stepped in?"

Damon glanced up, his pitch-black eyes gleaming with amusement.

"The Sterling family."

Lyra’s eyebrow arched slightly. "Victoria Sterling?"

"The very same," Damon murmured, setting his tablet aside. "The moment Julian was dragged off in cuffs, Victoria’s father purchased the defaulted mezzanine debt of Carter Logistics. Rumor has it Victoria spent the last forty-eight hours bragging to every socialite in the Upper East Side that she would purchase your family’s foreclosed penthouse at auction."

Lyra let out a soft, dry laugh.

Victoria Sterling. The self-proclaimed "Queen of Manhattan," whose family held exclusive distribution rights for imported European luxuries. When Lyra was playing the quiet, wheelchair-bound fiancée to protect Julian's pride, Victoria had made a sport out of publicly mocking her.

“A cripple belongs in a hospice, not at the Met Gala,” Victoria had once sneered, spilling red wine across Lyra’s lap during a charity auction two years ago.

At the time, Lyra had swallowed the insult to keep the Vance family's identity buried.

Not anymore.

"Where is the engagement gala being hosted tonight?" Lyra asked.

"The Plaza," Damon replied, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Your brother Thomas booked the Grand Ballroom. Every old-money clan on the eastern seaboard has RSVP'd. Some are coming to pay tribute. Most are coming to see if the rumors about Alexander Vance's 'miracle daughter' are true."

Damon reached across the small console table, his calloused thumb lightly tracing the delicate line of Lyra’s jaw.

"Tonight, Lady Vance, you don't just attend a party. You take your throne."

8:00 PM. The Plaza Hotel, Fifth Avenue.

The red carpet stretched for half a block, lined with barricades holding back hundreds of paparazzi and curious onlookers. Sleek Bentleys, Ferraris, and vintage Aston Martins arrived in an endless stream of glittering opulence.

Inside the ballroom, crystal chandeliers reflected off gold leaf cornices and towering floral arrangements of midnight-black calla lilies and deep crimson orchids.

In the center of the VIP lounge stood Victoria Sterling.

Draped in an ostentatious crimson ballgown adorned with thousands of Swarovski crystals, Victoria held a glass of Dom Pérignon, holding court among Manhattan’s wealthiest heiresses.

"Did you hear the ridiculous story?" Victoria laughed loudly, waving her champagne flute. "People are saying the Vance family—the reclusive gardeners who couldn't even afford Julian's bail—are secretly financial gods! Julian is an idiot who ruined his own life, but believing Lyra Vance is some shadow princess? Give me a break."

"Well, Julian was definitely sent to federal holding," a young woman whispered nervously. "And the Carter stock went to zero in ten minutes."

"That was Wall Street short-sellers smelling blood in the water!" Victoria snapped with contempt. "Even if Lyra's family has a few million tucked away in real estate, she’s still a broken cripple. What billionaire would ever touch a woman who can’t even walk without assistance?"

Victoria took a sip of her champagne, her lips curling into a cruel smirk.

"If she dares to show her face here tonight, I’ll personally remind her what real high society looks like."

Just as the words left her mouth, the heavy double doors of the Grand Ballroom swung open with a resounding thud.

The lively chatter died down in an instant.

The lights in the hall dimmed by half, leaving only the focused white spotlights illuminating the grand marble entryway.

A low, collective gasp rippled through the room.

Walking through the doors was not a woman in a wheelchair.

Lyra Vance glided down the red-carpeted steps with mesmerizing, lethal grace.

She wore a custom crimson gown crafted from liquid silk, the shade of fresh blood, with a daring slit that revealed her long, flawless legs with every step. Around her neck was a breathtaking collar of black diamonds centered around an eighty-carat untreated Burmese ruby that caught the spotlight like an open flame.

Her posture was flawless, her chin held high, her dark eyes scanning the room with the sovereign detachment of a monarch surveying her court.

And by her side walked Damon Blackwood.

Dressed in an immaculate black tuxedo with a midnight-blue velvet lapel, the Northern warlord held Lyra’s hand in his own. His jaw was tight, the faint jagged scar giving him an aura of untamed violence that made the surrounding Wall Street executives instinctively take a step back.

Behind them walked Thomas Vance, Alexander Vance, and Arthur Vance—the three men whose collective signatures controlled forty percent of the world's sovereign credit.

"Is that... Lyra?!" someone whispered in utter shock.

"She's walking! She's actually walking!"

"Look at that ruby... my god, that's the Blood of Geneva! It was bought at Sotheby's ten years ago by an anonymous sovereign fund!"

"And the man beside her... that's Damon Blackwood! The King of the North!"

Victoria Sterling froze, her champagne flute trembling in her grip until the liquid spilled over her manicured fingers. Her eyes bulged as she stared at Lyra's confident, rhythmic stride.

No... that's impossible! She was paralyzed! Julian showed me the medical records!

Lyra’s gaze cut through the sea of socialites, locking directly onto Victoria.

A faint, chilling smile touched Lyra's crimson lips.

She didn't wait for introductions. Hand in hand with Damon, Lyra walked straight through the parting crowd until she stopped directly in front of the frozen heiress.

"Victoria," Lyra spoke, her voice clear, melodic, and cold as winter frost. "You seem surprised to see me standing."

Victoria swallowed hard, forcing her trembling voice to muster whatever arrogance she had left. "Lyra... so you recovered. How nice for you. But this is the Plaza’s private gala. What gave a girl with a ruined reputation the right to crash our celebration?"

"Crash?"

Thomas Vance stepped up to Lyra’s side, signaling slightly with his fingers.

The head of the Plaza Hotel, accompanied by three uniformed attorneys, hurried out from the VIP corridor, holding a leather-bound folio.

"Miss Sterling," the hotel director said loudly, bowing deeply to Lyra. "At 6:30 PM this evening, the Vance Consortium completed the acquisition of the Plaza Hotel and the entire Fifth Avenue hospitality portfolio."

The attorney stepped forward, handing a formal eviction notice directly to Victoria's chest.

"Furthermore, Miss Sterling, your father's credit lines with Manhattan Merchant Bank have been revoked. You and your family have been permanently banned from all Vance-owned properties globally."

The attorney looked at the security guards flanking the lounge.

"Escort Miss Sterling to the curb."

Victoria's face turned as white as paper. "You... you bought the Plaza just to kick me out?!"

"Buy the Plaza?"

Lyra leaned in slightly, the ruby at her throat glittering dangerously under the lights.

"Victoria, my family doesn't buy hotels for revenge. We buy them like people buy groceries."

Lyra reached out, her delicate fingers lightly tapping Victoria’s crystal champagne glass.

Clink.

"Two years ago, you poured wine on my dress because you thought I couldn't stand up," Lyra whispered into her ear.

"Today, I take the floor out from under your feet."

Lyra pulled back, her eyes looking at the hotel security guards without a trace of pity:

"Get her out of my sight."