Chapter 6

One week later. The Metropolitan Museum of Art was glowing under the New York night sky.

Bridget stepped out of a black Lincoln Town Car. She wore a sharp, black haute couture gown that left her shoulders bare. The dress was armor. In her hand, she held a heavy platinum invitation card. It belonged to her mother, but tonight, Bridget was representing the Rostova family.

The moment her heels hit the red carpet, the paparazzi went wild. Camera flashes exploded in her face like lightning. Reporters shouted questions about her broken engagement and her illegitimate status.

Bridget kept her spine perfectly straight. She did not look at the cameras. She walked up the massive stone steps and entered the grand ballroom.

The noise in the room dropped the second she walked in. The wives of the old money families turned their heads. Their eyes dragged up and down Bridget's dress with obvious disgust. They whispered behind their champagne flutes.

Bridget ignored the burning in her stomach. She took a glass of champagne from a passing tray and walked directly toward a group of men near the center exhibit. They were the key investors in her mother's company.

She smiled, her voice steady and professional, as she began to discuss the quarterly projections, desperately trying to project stability.

Just as the conversation was flowing, a voice dripped with poison behind her.

"Looking for a new sugar daddy to fund your mother's failing business, Bridget?"

Bridget turned. David stood there, holding a drink, a nasty smirk on his face.

The investors looked uncomfortable. They quickly made excuses and scattered, leaving Bridget alone with him.

"Stay away from me, David," Bridget said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Unless you want another drink in your face."

"You don't have the guts," David sneered.

Before Bridget could reply, Cheyenne walked up. She was holding the arm of a powerful state senator. She looked at Bridget with fake shock.

"Bridget! How did you sneak past security? This is an exclusive event."

Bridget held up the platinum invitation. "I walked through the front door. Representing my mother's company."

Cheyenne laughed, a high, irritating sound. She leaned in close to Bridget's ear.

"A bastard will always be a bastard. You belong in the gutter."

Bridget did not flinch. She smiled coldly. "At least I don't have to pour wine for men in VIP rooms just to get their attention."

Cheyenne's face turned stark white. She knew exactly what Bridget was talking about. Pure hatred flashed in her eyes. She turned her head and made a very quick, subtle eye contact with David.

David gave a microscopic nod. He raised his glass. "Let's just enjoy the party."

Bridget felt sick looking at them. She turned around and walked toward the open balcony doors at the edge of the ballroom to get some fresh air.

As she turned, a waiter carrying a large silver tray walked directly across her path. The tray temporarily blocked her view of her own hand.

In that split second, David reached out. His finger flicked over the rim of Bridget's champagne flute. A tiny amount of white powder fell into the golden liquid and dissolved instantly.

Bridget stepped onto the dark balcony. The cold wind hit her bare shoulders. She raised the glass to her lips and drank the champagne, desperate to calm her racing heart.

On the second floor of the museum, standing in the shadows of a private viewing box, Damond watched the entire scene.

His eyes were locked on Bridget. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek.

His assistant, Miles, stepped up behind him. "Sir, the waiter just confirmed. David slipped something into her drink."

Damond looked down at the glass in his own hand. The crystal shattered with a loud crack. Blood dripped from his palm, but he did not seem to feel it.

"Lock down every side exit in this building," Damond ordered. His voice was the sound of a nightmare. "No one gets out."

He dropped the broken glass and walked toward the stairs.